


I'll Give You The Stars

by mageicalwishes



Series: Carry On Countdown 2020 [10]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, I'll Give You the Sun - Jandy Nelson
Genre: Anxious Thoughts, Carry On Countdown 2020 (Simon Snow), Carry on Countdown Day 10, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Neurodiversity, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Panic Attacks, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Space Enthusiast Simon, Stargazing, Summer Love, Summer Romance, artist Baz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27888349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageicalwishes/pseuds/mageicalwishes
Summary: A loose crossover between Carry On and parts of I'll Give You The Sun."He’s haloed by the streetlights, and I’m using all my power not to stare. But … it’s hard. His face is celestial - The sunshine of his soul peeking through his features, delightfully. I want to say more - To hold a conversation - Just so that he doesn’t leave. Our houses are right there, but I feel so … multicoloured."Rated M for Language & Mild Sexual Content in later chapters.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027147
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2020





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Originally for Carry On Countdown 2020, Day 10 - Crossover

**Baz**

I can’t stop thinking, my mind plagued by slippery grey roads and black funeral shrouds. The purple under my Father’s dulled eyes. The scarlet of my Aunt’s anger. My mind is too loud - Too noxious. I need to push it elsewhere for a while. I need to see - To paint. And so, I search for a subject. 

Scanning my binoculars over the bleak world below, searching for so much as a glimpse of hue. But the colours are slipping for the world again - They always do when I get too tangled in my mind - leaving it grey and desolate. And then … I see them. The movers. So far from colourless, I’m dizzied. 

They’re great work horses, both of them - One chestnut, and one palomino - dashes of indulgent brown on my canvas. Pivoting a grandfather clock into the house-next-door. 

I’m zooming in before I have time to reconsider. Focusing on the stretch of navy against the flex of their arms. The rose flush of exertion on their faces. The tan swathes of stomach, peeking above their belts as they lift. The - _Shit. Shit Shit._

I drop my binoculars to the floor, body following swiftly behind. Because, on the roof of the house, there’s a boy I’ve never seen before pointing a telescope directly at me. _Jesus christ! How long has he even been there?_

I drop the binoculars to the floor, body following swiftly behind. Because, on the roof of the house, there’s a boy I’ve never seen before pointing a telescope directly at me. _Fucking hell. How long has he even been there?_

I hold still, counting to sixty one in my head, before spying over the windowsill. Risking another glance. 

He’s a mess of bronze curls and golden skin, all wrapped up in a tatty purple jumper and tartan scarf. And he’s grinning at me, bright and beaming. 

_God. Grinning. Is he laughing at me already? Does he know what I was doing? That I was watching the movers? Does he think that I’m …? He must. Why else would I be ogling them. Bloody hell._

Dread pinches at my throat, and I try to tether my mind, so that it doesn’t get away from me again. 

_Maybe he’s just a smiley person. Maybe he thinks that I was just … admiring his furniture. That’s equally as plausible, surely? I mean, he has a telescope - Dickheads don’t tend to have telescopes, do they?_

I squeeze a hand around my wrist - _One. Two. Three times_ \- and stand. 

When he sees me, he waves - Grin still shining, and looking no more judgmental than earlier (Despite my weird little duck out). I can do this. This is fine. I’ll wave back. That’s okay. 

But, before I have a chance to reciprocate, he’s reaching into his pocket, drawing an arm backwards, and lobbing something at me (Okay, so … maybe he _is_ a dickhead after all?)

On reflex, I stick out my hand, the unknown object slapping hard against my skin as I close my fingers around it.

“Nice catch!” He yells - Voice deep and dashed with a definite Northern tinge. 

I shrug, because I don’t know what to say, and examine his near-headshot of a ‘gift’. Turning the rock over in the palm of my hand. It’s small (About the size of a pound coin) and covered in irregular lightening-like cracks. 

_What am I supposed to do with it? Do I throw it back? Why did he even throw it at me in the first place?_

Baffled, I slip it into my back pocket for safe-keeping. 

When I look back up at him, hoping for some kind of explanation, he’s turned himself back towards the sky. Too focused on the space above us to notice me. 

Some small, muffled part of myself wants to shout something back. Ask him what he could _possibly_ be looking at up there during the day, or just … say hello. But, I’m worryingly off-kilter, and I need to rebalance. I hadn’t prepared myself to meet a new person. I wasn’t ready.

So, I run away to recuperate. Off to the Art Institute - To the place I know best. To my refuge. 

_Coward._

* * *

I made it to the Institute just in time for Professor Bunce’s life drawing class - My favourite. But … I’m not feeling my usual post-art calm. 

It was a good, productive sketch session. Nobody caught me peeping through the window, and I was able to get a few back studies down. So, really, it was a success. But, my mind is still reeling (Although with a different genre of thought earlier). 

Every other class that I’ve ‘attended’ have _always_ had female models. A wide range of women posing demurely with silks or fruit bowls; arms placed carefully to partially protect their modesty. I’m _used_ to that. I was _prepared_ for that. But today … it was a bloke.

I don’t have a problem with that. _Not really._

There’s nothing wrong with blokes. And there’s nothing wrong with _naked_ blokes, either. I’m nearly eighteen. I’m mature enough to handle that. _A body is a body. A sketch is a sketch._ But, I wasn’t expecting it. And I _don’t_ like to be caught off guard. 

I’m rattled, and I just need to get back home - Back to normality. To safe things, like a beach scene or a self-portrait. To familiarity. 

  
  


But, only a few steps into my journey, I see him - The guy from the roof. Leaning against a tree, smiling at me lopsidedly. 

I blink, confirming he isn’t just some messed up hallucination, and then he’s talking. Stood, barely three metres from me, in the dirt. 

“How was class?” 

He says it like it isn’t entirely absurd that he’s here, with me, where he really has no reason to be. Like he hasn’t just caught me sketching, propped-up against the wall outside, rather than inside the studio. Like we _aren’t_ complete strangers (Because, as much as he may be smiling at me, we don’t even know eachothers names yet). 

“Yeah, sorry,” he mumbles. “I kinda’ followed you. I wanted to check out the woods, but I wasn’t sure of the way. So, I just … tagged along. Figured you wouldn’t mind. Don’t worry though, I’m not like a stalker or anything. I wasn’t even watching you the whole time. I was busy with my own stuff.” 

He points to an open suitcase, filled to the brim with … rocks? _What is this guy's obsession with bloody gravel?_

“My meteorite bag is all packed now, though. So we can go home.” 

I nod like that explains something, but it _really doesn’t. I thought meteorites were in the sky, not … on the ground? And what does that even mean? He just carries around little chunks of infinity? Why? Why for?_

I squint at him, searching his face for some sign of disingenuity - For any indication that he’s just heaving me on. But, I find nothing. Well, nothing … _bad,_ anyway. Just a deep dimple, and planes of tawny skin, speckled with galaxies of moles. 

_He exists in shades of orange and gold. He’s the sun, and I can’t look away._

“Stare much?” He laughs. 

I drop my gaze, embarrassed - Staring down at his scuffed Nikes as my neck prickles with heat. I don’t answer. _What am I even supposed to say to that? Yes?_

“Well … you’re probably just used to it, right? From staring at that fella all afternoon. You know … for your drawing.” 

I look up - Grey boring into blue. He’s eyeing my pad curiously . 

“He was naked?” He breathes in as he says it, like the words stole his oxygen (And, maybe they did. I am feeling a little depleted myself). 

My stomach plummets, but I try to keep my face still. I think about him watching me, watching the movers. How he must’ve seen me staring at the model. If he didn’t know then, he must know now. And … I don’t know how to feel about that just yet. 

He’s still ogling my pad, but I don’t understand why. _Does he want me to show him the drawings?_ It certainly _seems_ like he does. And some disturbed part of me is convinced that I should. But, I doubt it. _‘Hey stranger, wanna’ see how I draw dicks?’_ said no sane person ever. 

My gut twists tight at the thought, and I’m out of control - Brain hazy with the moment’s tension. 

“Look, man,” he sighs, scrubbing at the back of his neck. “I have legitimately no idea how to get back home. I _did_ try, but I just ended up back here. So, I’ve just been waiting for you to lead the way back. You don’t mind, do you? I’m sorry that I spooked you.” 

Do I mind? I don’t know. I don’t think so. But, I don’t normally like people walking behind me - They might judge how I step. How fast I’m going. 

I shake my head, anyway, and point him in the right direction. 

* * *

It’s a long way home though the Wavering Woods, and we walk the majority of it in silence.

I try and resist the urge to look back at him. The urge to ask him all of my ‘Why’s - _Why were you looking at me? Why were you looking at the stars in daylight? Why did you come here with me? Why are you still here? Why are you collecting meteorites?_ It would only make me more muddled. 

So, rather than relent, I take out my invisible brushes and start to paint behind my eyes. A dragon-boy with wings of gold, guarding a cavern _filled_ with geodes and space junk. Purples and oranges and reds. 

And, after a while, I feel myself settling back into my skin. The slow waltz of the trees and the syrupy sunset relaxing me, in spite of the moments unsteadiness. Or … maybe it was him. From what I can tell, he’s an alarmingly relaxed person (I mean, I don’t know anyone else who would follow a complete stranger about, with zero self-consciousness). I wouldn’t be surprised if he had some freaky, magic ‘Realm of Calm’ thing going on around him. 

When we re-emerge into the world of concrete-laden pavements, he spins and jumps in front of me, utterly ecstatic. 

“Holy shit!” He shouts _(I wish he wouldn’t, though. People will look)._ “That’s like … the longest I’ve gone without talking ever! My whole life! I was holding my breath, just trying to keep the words in. I thought it was gonna’ kill me. How _do_ you even do that? Are you always like this?”

He’s a mile a minute, but I’m lagging behind. 

“Like what?” I ask, voice startlingly hoarse. 

Then he’s laughing again. _Really laughing_ \- Unrestrained and childish, straight from the belly. The corner of his eyes crinkling, joyfully, with the force of it. And I can tell that he’s someone who does this a lot - _Laughing_ \- by the way he lets it take him over so easily.

Even though I know it’s aimed at me, it’s alright. I don’t mind. Instead of my usual panic, it just makes me feel a little fizzy inside (In a good way, I think). There’s no malice in it. No judgement. 

“Christ! Are you kidding? You _do_ know those are the first words you’ve said to me all day, right?”

I didn’t, but I don’t tell him that. He’d probably just think I was strange (Well, more strange than he, no doubt, already does). 

He’s properly cracking up now (Even though it really wasn’t _that_ funny). 

“And then you’re just like _‘What?’_ ” He says, making an absolutely atrocious attempt at imitating my accent. Which leaves him sounding like a drunken Prince Charles impersonator. 

Before I can stop it, I’m laughing outright alongside him. Both of us hunched over cackling, wholeheartedly, probably looking more than a little mad. 

_I’m still not sure what is even really funny._

Once we’ve calmed down, he starts staring at my sketchpad again. _I really wish he wouldn’t. I’m not going to show him my sketches. Not even if he begs. I’d never survive the embarrassment._

He points down to it with a lopsided smile. “Lemme’ guess,” he says. “You do most of your talking in there?” 

I feel the tips of my ears burn pink. 

“Yeah. Something like that,” I say. My voice comes out whispered and gruff, even though I didn’t mean it to. _He probably thinks I did it on purpose. He probably thinks I was trying to impress him, or something. Trying to come on to him. But I wasn’t. I wouldn’t._

He’s haloed by the streetlights, and I’m using all my power not to stare. But … it’s hard. His face is celestial - The sunshine of his soul peeking through his features, delightfully. 

I want to say more - To hold a conversation - Just so that he doesn’t leave. Our houses are right there, but I feel so … multicoloured. He can’t go. Not yet. 

“I paint in my head,” I blurt. _Dumb. So unbelievably thick-skulled._ “That’s why I was so quiet. I got distracted. I was painting.” 

He scrunches up his face, thinking. 

“Cool,” he shrugs. “Saves paper, I suppose. So, better for the trees and that.”

_Stalling. He’s definitely stalling. I’ve made it weird. I always make it weird._

“Were you painting anything specific?” 

“You,” I whisper. 

_Oh, fucking hell! I’ve ruined it. I’ve smeared on that last glob of un-erasable acrylic and ruined the painting. I didn’t even mean to say it. It just … slipped out._

And now he’s stood, gawping, eyes wide and face flushed. Probably thinking about how much of a freak I am. Probably feeling … Shit, he must be so embarrassed. I’ve gone and dumped all my deprived, juvenile keenness on him, completely uninvited, and now he’s drowning in it. 

Everything is closing in around me. The air, suddenly too humid to swallow. I’m gasping - Waves of breath, crashing loudly in my ears. Panic. I’m panicking. _The world is too tight - Too much. I need to - I have to go. Now._

So, for the second time today, I run. Turning on my heels and darting back towards the safety of my house, without so much as a ‘Goodbye’. Away from him. Away from humiliation. Back to my room, where I pull the blinds shut and open up my pad - Flipping right over today’s work. A blank page. A fresh start. 

_I really am no good at talking the normal way._


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz get to know each other better.

My eyes are drooping, heavy, but so is my mind. I can’t shut it off _(I can never shut it off)._ Slowly trudging through focal points, in an attempt to silence it - The faint glow of light from beneath my blinds. The weight of my duvet against my chest. 

I can’t bear to lie awake and useless for another minute. So, I get dressed - Throwing on my mother’s daisy printed shirt and yesterday's trousers - and climb out of the window, up onto the roof. 

I look for the new kid, but he isn’t there (Which isn’t really surprising given that it’s barely five AM). It’s stupid, really - And I don’t understand it - but as I was tossing and turning, I couldn’t quiet the idea that he was sat on his roof, watching me. Wondering why I was fidgeting so much. Wondering why I ran away. Just … Waiting for me to come and talk to him - To explain myself. 

He isn’t there, though; my only companion, the early-morning mist. A world stalled in mauve. 

I sit down, cross-legged, and pull out my sketchpad. I try to draw, but I just end up wasting pages. I can’t get the blue of his eyes right - They’re not periwinkle, or azure, or even cobalt. None of my pastels match (There isn’t a shade called _‘just blue’_ ). I can’t even draw a decent line. I can’t concentrate. I can’t stop bloody _thinking._

Thinking about my art. Whether it’s any good at all, or if I’m just kidding myself. _What if Mother lied? What if Miss Possibelf - My art teacher - is just trying to spare my feelings. She’s always giving me deadline extensions and stopping to ‘check in’ on me, on account of the ‘rough year I’ve had’. It’s certainly not beyond possibility. She wouldn’t want to hurt me by telling me the truth - That it’s shit._ _That it’s mediocre at best._

Whether I’m good enough to get into the Art Institute. Or whether they’ll catch me peeping and put me under some kind of permanent exile. Whether Father will even _let_ me apply. Mother was always the one to tell me to just … follow my heart and do what made me happy - That she’d be proud of me no matter what. Father says that I need to think practically about my career prospects. He wants me to focus on my ‘proper’ A levels; to go to university and study Economics like him. I know that the whole art ‘thing’ embarrasses him. That _I_ embarrass him. He’s always lecturing me about how I need to ‘man-up’ and stop being so gloomy _(Which pisses me off, to be honest. He’s no better than me really, not since what happened to Mother. He’s just better at pretending)._ He’d probably _pay_ me not to go to the Institute - To save him from that inevitable humiliation at the next Grimm family reunion. 

But mostly ... I’m thinking about _him._ Whether he thinks that I’m weird. Whether he’s angry at me for running away. Whether he’ll want to speak to me again. Whether he’s thought of me at all. I’ve thought of him. I can’t _stop_ thinking about him, actually. Every single stupid thing I said to him smashing around my brain on repeat - _‘I paint in my head sometimes’ ‘You’ - Why Why? Why Why Why?_

_What’s going to happen when he realises that I’m me? What’s going to happen, full stop._ A cold wind blows through me, chilling my bones, and suddenly I know that everything is doomed. Not just me, but the whole gloomy grubby world. 

I lay back against the slate, closing my eyes and whispering an unanswered “Help” up to the stars. 

* * *

I awake to the clanking of a garage door, and the world is alive - Cerulean-stained skies draped over the vibrant swirls of green and brown trees. Thick, eggy light beaming over everything. And there, in the midst of it all, is the boy - Looking just as golden as I had remembered. _A light show against the dullness of suburbia._

He’s got his hood up, shielding his face like he’s up to something secretive. And across his chest is a worn, orange hold-all. _His meteorite bag._

_I want to follow him, but that’s weird. That would make it look like I was stalking him. He already caught me watching the movers, so he must think I’m some kind of creepy closet case. I can’t just … go after him and tell him that I was waiting for him._

And yet, when he reaches the edge of the woods (Where we had our laughing fit), he hesitates for a moment before turning and staring at me, like he’s known that I’ve been here the whole time. Like he knows I’ve been waiting.

Our eyes lock and my spine shivers. He wants me to follow him, I think. He’s practically pleading. But _why?_ I know that this is how people make friends - By being strangers first - and I know that new people are always looking to connect, but … I don’t know why he’s chosen _me? Nothing about yesterday painted me in a good light. So, maybe it’s just some kind of joke? Maybe he’s just calling me to him because he knows I’ll say something embarrassing? Maybe … Maybe I should go. I want to go - More than anything. And it seems like he wants me to go, too._

_It’s okay. This is what people do. He followed me all the way to the Institute. I can follow him into the forest. This is it - My chance. It’s allowed. It’s normal. It’s alright …_

Before my courage withers, I pack my pad away, climb down the drainpipe, and set off behind him. 

I stumble around the darkened pathway searching for him for at least ten minutes. Listening out for footsteps or foreign breath, but hearing nothing by the hammering of my own pulse. 

Eventually, though, I track him down. Crouched in the mud, examining something in his hand with a magnifying glass. _So unabashedly himself._

_Oh god. What am I even doing here? I won’t know what to say to him. I won’t know what to do with my hands. Or how best to stand. Or … anything. I’m going to make a fool of myself. Again. I need to get home. Now._

I edge backwards, ready to flee, but stumble over a tree branch. _Idiot, idiot, idiot._ He turns and looks over at me, and I’m paralysed. 

“Hey,” he says casually, dropping whatever was in his hands and taking a few steps towards me. “I still don’t know the woods that well. Was hoping you would … you know -” He doesn’t finish, he just stares down at my shoes. _Does he think they’re ugly? They’re pretty plain. I thought they looked okay, but now I’m not so sure._ “What’s your name anyway, man?” 

He’s close enough to touch, close enough that I can count every mole on his face - Three on his right cheek, and one right under his right eye. I want to wrap my arms around him. My hands twitching where they’re restrained by my sides. _How come everybody else always seems to know what to do with their hands, but I never do? Oh shit. Pockets. Yes. Pockets._

Relieved, I slip my hands away, avoiding his eyes. There’s something about them - Boring blue but with an exposing intensity. _Absurd._ I look down at his lips instead, at the sharp curve of his cupid's bow and the rough tears where he’s been biting them. 

Even with my undivided attention on his mouth, I can feel his gaze lingering on my skin. And it’s sending my IQ plummeting. 

“I can guess if you’d prefer,” he says. “Rhys? Or … no you don’t look like a Rhys. More of a … James? Alexander?”

“Baz,” I blurt, sounding as though the knowledge just came to me. “Or really Basil. Well, Basilton. Well no, _technically_ I’m Tyrannus, but I hate that name so … Basilton Grimm-Pitch. Baz. Yeah.” _Jesus Fucking Christ. Total shit show._

“Are you sure?”

“Uh huh,” I nod. “Definitely. One hundred percent.”

I’m nothing like myself. My voice comes out chirpy and weird - _Girlish. Embarrassing._ My hands start to get all clammy, so I pull them out of my pockets. But then I don’t know what to do with them again, so I clap them together like a pair of cymbals. _Like a braindead twat._

“Simon,” he shrugs, leaving it at that because _his_ brain functions correctly. 

His lips are making me nervous now, so I turn my eyes and talk to the trees instead. 

“How old are you?” 

“Eighteen, you?” 

“Same,” I say. _Uh oh. What is wrong with me? Why would I do that?_

He nods, believing me. _Because he has no reason not to. Because literally nobody would unnecessarily lie about their age. Because I’m being weird again - Being me._

“I play for the Watford Under-23s, so I board there most of the time. I’m here until the new season starts, though.” 

_Oh. He’s leaving. When do football seasons even start? I don’t know. I’ll google it later._

“I go to The Art Institute. The one you saw me drawing at. That one. Yeah,” I say. _What is it with me and lying today? There’s literally no need for it, but I can’t seem to stop myself - The words tumbling out of my mouth without consent. ‘I’m eighteen’ ‘I go to the Institute’. Dishonest tosser._

I guess I’ve finally taken Father’s advice to be _literally anybody_ other than my authentic self. Just … at the worst possible time. 

I steal a look at him, bushy brows creased in confusion. And that’s when I remember; he _saw_ me. Standing _outside_ the Institute, which has it’s name plastered on nearly every available inch of wall space. _Fuck. He must think that’s odd. He must suspect._

I have two choices now: Run home and hide for _at least_ the next three months, or -

“I don’t really go there, sorry,” I confess, eyes fixed on the tree’s cracking bark. _I mustn’t look at his eyes. I mustn’t look at his lips._ “I just _want_ to go there. I’ve wanted to for as long as I can remember, actually. And, I’m not eighteen yet. Not until February the twenty-fourth, anyway. So … nearly. It’s the same day as Winslow Homer, you know? The artist. American. He does landscapes. Loads of boats and stormy seas and stuff. He liked coastlines, but … I don’t really know why-” I stop myself because … _woah. What am I even doing right now?_

Swallowing thickly, I turn towards him. _Simon._ He’s squinting at me, silently. _Oh God. Why isn’t he saying anything? Maybe I used up all the words? Maybe he’s freaked out that I lied and then un-lied and then talked his ears off? Why didn’t I just stay on the roof? I was alright there. Making friends is stressful, and clearly I’m not built properly for it._

I pinch the sides of my wrist. Opening and closing my fingers’ over and over again. _One. Two. Three. Focus on that. The pang of pain. Hold your breath. Breathe normally. Just … relax. I’m fine. It’s fine. I just need - I need to focus on staying where I am. The firm ground under my feet. The subtle blow of the wind against my ears. Stay here. Stay here. Don’t panic. Please stay here._

His lips curve upwards into a smile, and shakes his head with a shrug. “Cool. Just … try and chill out, dude. I don’t mind that you - You know. I don’t care.” 

Braving it, I look upwards. Our eyes meet, and we both crack up like we’re made of the same air. 

“Nut,” he chuckles. “You know, I was thinking … you could help me look for meteorites. If you want.” 

And that’s how we end up crawling about on the floor, like a pair of strange, overgrown dogs. I’m wondering what I should ask him - Trying to figure out what I want to know most. _When his birthday is? Or … maybe his favourite music?_ \- when he seems to find what he’s been looking for. Holding up an ordinary chunk of rock triumphantly. 

“Here,” he grins, scuttling over to me and pressing it into my hand. It’s so heavy it bends my wrist backwards. He cups his hand around the back of mine to keep it upright and my mind goes haywire. His skin, warm and rough against mine. “This one’s for sure. Magnetized nickel - An exploded star.” He points to my canvas bag, where my sketchpad is poking out. “You can draw it if you’d like.” 

I stare down at our hands. It’s nothing but an unassuming black rock - _I always imagined that fallen stars would be glorious? It looks like coal more than anything whimsical and spacey._ It’s entirely boring, and to be honest a lump of mud would be more interesting to draw, but he’s asking so I say “Sure”.

“Wicked,” he mutters, turning and walking away from me. 

I stand, awkwardly, star in hand, unsure of what he expects me to do. _Am I allowed to drop it? Does he want me to put it in his bag for him?_

He turns back around, tugging at my hand and pulling me towards him. _He keeps touching me and I don’t know how to handle it. Don't know where to put myself._

“Come on, Baz -” I like the sound of my name in his mouth. “- I brought an extra magnifying glass just for you.” 

The ground tilts beneath me. _He knew I was coming before he'd even left his house. He knew. And … I knew it too. We both did. Jesus._

He slips the glass out of his pocket and holds the handle out towards my free hand. I take it. 

“You can classify them in your book too, if you’d like. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you their names and everything, you just have to jot what I say down. Oh! You could _draw_ them too. That would be _stellar.”_

He’s a Golden Retriever, bounding and smiling. Rambling gleefully. I picture the canvas, a smiling snout pointed up towards space - Navies and beiges. Hot streaks of pink and red. _Exciting;_ _just like him (Even though Space rocks apparently aren’t)._

“Stellar,” I copy, smiling back at him. “What, um - What are we actually looking for though?” 

“Space junk,” he says, shrugging as if it was obvious. _Simon shrugs a lot. I’ve noticed that already._ “The sky’s always falling, you know? Always. People just don’t realise it.” 

* * *

Despite the supposed  _ constant _ downfall of space junk, hours later we haven't found a thing. No stars. No meteorites. Just …  _ nothing. _ His bag just as limp and empty as when the day began. But, I don’t care at all. 

Instead of ‘classifying’, I’ve spent most of the morning laying on my stomach looking at woodlice and slugs, all the while getting my head filled with intergalactic gobbledygook by Simon - Who pottered about behind me with his own homemade magnet rake.  _ Seriously. He’s the coolest person I’ve ever met.  _

I think he’s a blow-in, too -  _ Just like me.  _ He probably comes from some faraway exoplanet with six suns  _ (He taught me that word - Exoplanet. Apparently they orbit outside of solar systems. I think it suits him - Us. We don’t seem to orbit with everyone else).  _ It would explain a lot about him: the telescope, this mad search for what is probably pieces of his homeland, his hypnotising eyes, the fact that he’s here … with me, the way we keep cracking up together like I’m some normal skin-fitting human who has tonnes of friends and knows exactly when to say ‘dude’ or ‘bro’  _ (Which I definitely don’t).  _

It would even explain his ‘Realm of Calm’, which I’m  _ certain _ exists now. Birds quiet around him. Berries fall out of the trees right into his waiting palm, like they were made just for him. And me. My body is thrumming with a nervous excitement, but I’ve never felt this relaxed in my life.  _ I keep on leaving my body behind my head and having to go back and get it. I hope he hasn’t noticed.  _

Without examining the compulsion, I share my blow-in theory with him when we stop to rest by the river. Entirely unprompted.  _ What is he doing to me?  _

“They’ve done a pretty good job at getting you to pass as a natural-born Earthling,” I tell him. 

“But of course,” he beams, cheek dimpling. “I’m the  _ Chosen One. _ A lot of time and effort (And wicked alien tech) went into preparing me.” He looks me up and down, both brows raised and smile tinted with slyness.  _ “You _ on the other hand ...” 

I pick up a stone and chuck it into the river - Watching as it sinks to the bottom. “Yeah,” I sigh. “I had no preparation whatsoever. That’s why I’m so clueless. They just threw me in at the deep-end, and so … I drowned.” 

I meant it as a joke, but it comes out serious. It comes about true, because it is.  _ Whatever I am, I’m not clued in like everybody else seems to be. I’m just … alien. And not in the fascinating way that Simon is, but in the freaky ‘Oh god lock them away in Area 51 forever’ kind of way.  _

He gnaws at his bottom lip, but doesn’t say anything. I don’t either. I just stare at the little gap between his front teeth. For a moment, I picture sticking my tongue between them, even though the gap definitely isn’t big enough. _Because I’m disturbed - Irreparably so._

I decide to stop looking.  _ If he could read my mind, he’d be repulsed. I’ve spent many hours worrying about that - Whether I’d stumble across a mind reader someday - and given his ‘blow-in’ness, there's a decent chance that he may be one. _ I stare down at the ground, and count the fallen leaves to shift my mind away from his mouth.  _ Best to be cautious when around an extra-terrestrial.  _

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The mood has soured, and I know it’s my fault.  _ I shouldn’t say things like that out loud. I know that. I just … forgot. Curse his ‘Realm of Calm’!  _

He bumps his shoulder against mine - He’s much more ‘laddish’ than me. Normally, I’d mind. But I don’t think that I do. On him, it’s just ... endearing. 

“It’s alright, Baz. Don’t sweat it, okay? You’re alright.” 

_ ‘I’m alright’. Am I? I’m not so sure.  _

I study him from behind my curtain of hair - Eyes straining as I force them to their peripheries. 

I know from my lessons in portraiture that you have to look at someone - And I mean  _ really _ look - for a long time to see what they’re covering up. To see their true ‘inside face’. And when you do, if you can manage to translate it down into your piece,  _ that _ is what freaks people out about how much the image looks like them. Not that you got the angle of their nose or the colour of their eyes  _ just  _ right, but that you captured their inside face. 

Simon’s inside face is twisted with worry. 

“So …” he starts hesitantly. “That picture.” 

He stops and swipes his tongue across his lips. Suddenly, he seems nervous. And the thought of  _ him _ being nervous reawakens that stirring of anxiety deep within my gut. 

He swipes his tongue across his lips again. _Is that his nervous tick?_ I swallow, waiting for him to do it again. Staring at the curve of his mouth, willing it to happen. _Is he staring at my mouth too? Probably not, but maybe. I can’t see his eyes._ I swipe my tongue too. _Just in case._

He turns away and throws a few pebbles into the lake, tilting his wrist so that they skim across the surface. I watch the movement of muscle beneath his skin. The pulse of his neck as he converts Oxygen to Carbon Dioxide. I watch him breathe -  _ In and out, in and out _ \- Just … existing next to me.  _ Is he ever going to finish his sentence? Or are we to turn to dust, forever trapped in the limbo of the unsaid?  _

The air jumps between us, energised, as several more centuries of silence pass. Like all the molecules he put to sleep are suddenly waking up without him here. And that’s when it hits me - Hits me like a  _ bolt. _ The pictures from yesterday. The  _ naked _ pictures.  _ Is that what he means? God. If I wasn’t already sitting down, I think I’d collapse.  _

“My life sketches?” I ask, voice squeaking as my Testosterone cowers away.  _ Fuck’s sakes. _

“Nah,” he breathes. “The ones in your head. I was just … wondering if you ever actually make them?”

_ I’ve made myself look like a complete creep. I should have just … kept my mouth shut. Of course he wasn’t talking about the supremely gay naked bloke drawings! Why would I even think that? Why would I say it? This is just ... unsalvageable. I’ve ruined it.  _

“Sometimes,” I say, twisting my belt around in it’s loops. 

“Okay. Well … did you make it then?” His eyes catch mine, ensnaring me once again.  _ I want to say his name. Simon, Simon, Simon.  _

“Huh?” I ask, dumbly, voice far-away from the two of us. “Make what?” 

He licks at his lips, and I know what one he means now. My heart flopping about my chest, noisily.  _ Can he hear it beating? Does he know what is happening?  _

Looking away from me, he says it. “The one of me.” 

Possessed, I lunge for my pad and madly flip through the pages until I find him. There’s four of him in total, which might scare him away. I turn to the best version I have - Imperfect but mostly coloured - and lay it in his lap. 

I’m spiking a fever just trying to read whether he likes it. And when I shift my focus to try and see it through his eyes, my skin is positively  _ scalding. _ The all too familiar _ ‘uh oh kill me now’  _ feeling, corrupting my cells. 

The Simon  _ I _ created is practically a love confession. He’s colliding at top speed into a wall of magic, drenched in dashes of divine colour and light. It’s nothing like the drawings of people I do at school. 

I realise with the soul-dropping horror of it being too late for him to unsee it, that this is  _ not _ a drawing of a friend. Every brushstroke, every curve, every angle and every colour  _ scream _ how much I like him. 

I feel like I’m trapped in cling film - Suffocating in the reality of the situation. And he’s just … watching. Saying _nothing._ _Absolutely nothing! I wish I was a jellyfish. They can’t talk. They aren’t a constant disappointment to themselves. They just … bob about, not a care in the world._

“You don’t have to like it or anything,” I stumble, mind bursting as I desperately try to grab the picture back. “It’s not a big deal, really. I draw everyone.  _ Everything, _ actually. Beetles and stumps and just, like, grass, and potatoes. It’s not even  _ good,  _ I know. Just-” 

“Are you  _ joking?” _ He interrupts, grinning. “I totally like it. I love it. It’s wicked, mate. Trust.” 

He pauses, a deep red blush filling the spaces between his moles. I watch him breath. He’s breathing fast, and it's  _ ridiculously _ pleasing to watch. 

“I look like the bloody Aurora Borealis! How  _ do _ you even do that?” 

A circuit I didn’t even know flips within my chest, and I’m electrified. 

“I’m so happy I’m not a jellyfish!” I only realize that I’ve said it out loud when he gasps out a “What?”

“Nothing,” I startle. “Nothing. Just … I’m glad that it’s okay.” 

Then he’s laughing good and proper, just like yesterday. “You’re the strangest person ever, Baz. Mad as a box of frogs, I swear. Did you  _ really _ just say that you’re glad you’re not a … jellyfish? Why  _ would  _ you be one?” 

“No,” I say, trying and failing not to laugh. “I said-” 

Before I manage another word, the ring of his phone halts all this perfect.  _ Never before has Toxic by Brittany Spears brought about such a sombre shift in mood. _

He’s reassuring someone down the phone in murmurs, and I don’t think that he wants me to listen. So I don’t. I plot out another drawing in my head - Simon surrounded by lightning. Bending it to fulfil his will. God and his son have been entirely demoted. He’s the master of all now  _ (In my mind anyway). _

He taps me on the shoulder, startling me from my sketch. 

“Sorry, it’s my mum. I didn’t tell her where I was going and she gets a bit … stressy. I’m extremely dead already, so I gotta’ get back ASAP.” 

I try to smile but I know it fails.

“Nah,” I mumble. “You’re invincible.” 

He wasn’t supposed to hear it, but I see a half-smile breaking through the wall of his face. 

“Come on then. Lead the way, Picasso.” 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon & Baz see the stars.

**Baz**

I give up on my sketch, before I’ve even really started. Chucking my pencil down on the desk and closing my eyes, leaning back into the stretch of my chair. In my mind, I paint him perfectly in lightning. _Simon._

“What?” I hear. “You into meditating now, boyo?” 

I keep my eyes shut. Stubborn. “Go away Fi, the door was closed for a reason.” 

“Sulking isn’t a reason, Basil. Where have you been all week? Your Father is starting to worry.”

“Sure.” I scoff, cruelly. _I doubt he’s even noticed. He never normally does._

That’s why she’s here - My aunt. After Mother, Father just … fell apart - Pretty much literally. He forgot to go food shopping, so we both had to live off of the shitty canned meals I could afford from the corner shop, for a few weeks. He forgot to go into work, until his boss called and fired him, and he didn’t have to forget anymore. He forgot to shower, or brush his teeth. He … forgot how to live without her. He just sat, vacant, in bed, staring into nothing. I tried my best to help him, but nothing seemed to work. 

So, when Fiona came to pick up a few of Mother’s things, there really was no hiding how bad it had gotten. She moved in the next day, and hasn’t left since. I’m glad for it, to be honest (Although, I’d never admit that to her). I don’t know how much longer I could’ve handled it alone. 

She chucks a packet of cigarettes at my temple, because she is _eternally_ irritating - _Pitch blood does that to a person._ “What have you been doing?” 

“Nothing. I’ve been doing _nothing_ with _nobody.”_ I groan. 

Although ... I think we both know that that's not true. For the past five mornings, I’ve waited on my roof, feeling utterly deranged - My head permanently at least three feet above my neck - for his garage door to open, so that could run into the woods again and become imaginary. 

“What’s he called? The neighbour’s boy, I mean?” 

“God, what is wrong with you?” I panic. “Have you been _following_ me? Because you’re definitely _not_ allowed to do that.” 

She scoffs out a laugh. “No, _Mr Paranoid._ The other day I couldn’t sleep, so I went out for an early morning fag, and … I just _happened_ to see you two running off into the woods together. Figured you must at _least_ know him a little. I don’t think that your concept of self preservation is so fucked that you’d allow a total _stranger_ to lead you into dark, unoccupied woodland before the sun has even risen.”

_Shit. Busted._

“He’s called Simon," I offer, reluctantly. "We’re … friends. I know him.” 

She steps into the room, and perches herself down on the edge of the bed. Trapping me in further _excruciating_ conversation. 

“I know. I got curious. Spoke to his … Mum? Or, well, the woman he lives with. Hopefully not a lover, otherwise I’ll have to deck her,” she leans in closer, conspiratorially. “You know, at his old school they apparently used to call him ‘The Axe’. Weird, right? Do you know what that's all about?" 

I glare at her, best I can. 

“Is he -” she pauses, waiting for me to fill in that _frightfully_ loaded blank. 

“Is he what?” I snap, far too defensively. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. She knows. She must know. Everyone knows. Even though I’ve never actually told anyone (Unless you count my tearful confession to Paddington bear, on my fifteenth birthday. Which I don’t. As a Coming Out Story, that’s far too tragic; even for me)._

She lifts a brow. _“Nice,_ Basil. Is Simon, your new best friend, _nice.”_

“He’s alright,” I lie. “Just like anyone.” _More lies._

“Unfortunately for you, my _darling_ nephew, I happen to know that _you_ don’t like just _anyone.”_

I shrug, refusing to give her the satisfaction of turning to look. Refusing to answer properly. _People shouldn't be allowed to just ... enter your alone space and interrogate you. I was unguarded. It’s unfair. Unjust._

“Have you drawn him yet?” She softens. 

I glance down at the curls of pencilled bronze on my page. _Have I?_

“Yes. Nothing good so far, though,” I say. _I have to get her off of Simon, pronto. Forget blinds, I’d put the Great Wall of China around the two of us, if I could._ “Has Nic fixed your motorcycle yet?”

She rolls her eyes, viciously. “Of _course_ not. Good for nothing - I shoulda’ given it to a professional -” I open my mouth to parrot Nic’s eternally infamous _'_ _I'm a professional in everything. Men, women, computers. You name it, I’ve got it’_ speech, but she cuts me off. “- An _actual, qualified_ professional. Not just a big-headed know-nothing.” 

I grin, tongue poking out against my front teeth. “Aw. _So sweet._ I know you love him, really.” 

“Vile,” she groans, grabbing her cigarette packet-turned-weapon off of the floor. “You know -” 

There’s a tapping at the window. We both turn to look. 

“God. Is that that _him?_ At the window? _Seriously?_ Bloody hell, Baz, you’ve gone and got yourself your very own Chavvy Romeo.” I hate the excitement in her voice, but … _Is it?_

 _Is he really here?_ I can’t think who else it would be. And … I may or may not have _casually_ mentioned to him which room was mine - Right on the street with delightfully easy access - a few dozen times because, well ... I have my reasons. 

I get up and walk over to the window, pulling up my blind to get a look. And there he is. Real and at _my_ window (Sometimes I convince myself that this is all too good to be true. That somehow I’m making this whole thing up, and if someone were watching, they’d see me alone all day, talking to the air in the middle of a forest. Like a _genuine lunatic._ But no. He’s _here._ A window away from standing in _my_ bedroom. _Christ)._

He’s framed by the yellow glow of my lamp, looking like he’s just stuck a fork in a socket - Eyes sparked up and hair amped out all over his head. 

“I _definitely_ want to meet him,” Fiona says behind me, voice tinged with mischief. 

_I definitely do not want that. Not at all._

I bend down and stick my head out into the night, spreading my body out as much as possible, so that Fi can’t see out or Simon in. The air kisses my cheeks pleasantly, cool and feathery. 

“Hey,” I smile, like he _always_ knocks on my window at night, and my insides _aren’t_ whirring. 

“You gotta’ come up with me, Baz,” he says, smiling right back at me. _“Got to._ It’s _finally_ clear, and there’s no moon. It’s an intergalactic gorge fest up there.” 

If someone told me that I could go and hang out in Da Vinci’s studio while he painted the Mona Lisa right now, or go up to Simon’s roof with him - I’m on the roof. _No question._

The other day, he mentioned us possibly going to a showing of some sci-fi alien invasion movie from the eighties, and I nearly blacked out. I’d rather sit next to him, silent in the dark for two hours, then have a wall-painting party with Jackson Pollock. Or … paint Sunflowers with Van Gogh. So seeing stars ... it's a no brainer. 

The only problem with spending all day together in the woods, is that there’s so much space there. So much _separation._ I’d rather be crammed together in the boot of a car. Or a thimble. _Anything to have him close._ And while it's not exactly _ideal,_ the roof is _considerably_ smaller than the wooded expanses. 

"Yeah, Definitely. I'd love to," I stumble. 

Despite my best efforts at hogging the window, I’m quickly shoved aside, unceremoniously, as Fiona squeezes her head and shoulders in besides me, until we’re a two-headed Hydra. Probably scaring the shit out of Simon. _And making me look weird._

“Evening, _oh famous_ _Simon,”_ she sing-songs. 

He stares over at me wide-eyed, and I surge with embarrassment, willing the ground to swallow her up (And return her safe and sound, _later,_ when I’m not trying to talk to the boy I like!)

I ram her with my elbow, and hiss out a “Get out!” - Since that _really_ is the only practical solution left. She returns it with a sneer, jabbing at my rib. 

“Sorry!” I stumble. “She’s just leaving. She has to go ubedsgeyt for dhfeujmdnf -” I’m just making noise, slurring syllables together and hoping that they’ll collide and find meaning in his head. Before I, in one _remarkably_ ill thought out motion, hoist my body up and frog-jump out of the window. Only _just_ landing on unsteady feet, and avoiding tumbling headfirst into a very startled Simon. Instead, crashing into the foliage. 

I spin myself around, hiding my face away from him as I right myself, in a last ditch effort to retain what little dignity I have left. Brushing dew-dampened hair out of my eyes and off of my forehead, before turning and pulling the window closed behind me. Shoving Fiona’s shoulders backwards, to avoid decapitating her (A courtesy which, after that _humiliating_ performance, I’m not sure she really deserves). 

Once away, we walk down the pavement together in silence. Shoulders brushing together every other step, yet both of us refusing to create a more appropriate distance. 

I feel exactly like I do when I wake up from the dream where I’m naked in my secondary school cafeteria, with nothing but a pathetic, flimsy serviette to cover myself - Sweaty and heart thrumming with anxiety. _Exposed._

Simon speaks to what just happened succinctly. “Mate, mental. _Utterly mental”._

I sigh, mumbling “Thanks for that, Einstein. I _was_ there.” 

Then, to my surprise (And _overwhelming_ relief) he starts to laugh again - Mountainous and all-consuming. And no less exhilarating than the last time I heard it. 

_“So_ mental,” he says, karate-chopping the air (For no apparent reason). “I legit’ thought that you were going to chop her head off with the window!” 

I meet his eyes and we’re both sent on a rollicking ride of hysterics. 

“So … ‘The Axe’?” I ask, face still pulled into an increasingly familiar smile. 

“Fuck,” he growls, voice toned with an impressive mixture of both embarrassment and pride. “That was _fast._ Who even told you that?”

I can’t tell him that my Aunt is a creep and spoke to whoever he lives with, so I go with the mysterious approach. “I have my sources,” I say, trying my best not to sound like a serial killer.

He kicks his right leg out in front of us, dropping his voice into a low, joking grumble. “No one messes with The Axe! Grrr.”

‘The Axe’ bumps against my ankle, in a gentle kick. We’re well lit by the streetlamp above us, and I pray that my face isn’t revealing what’s happened to me inside at the contact, betraying me in shades of red and pink. It’s the first time he’s touched me, and I already want more. _More, more, more. So much more._

I follow him up the ladder to the roof, every part of me still swimming. Silently wishing that the ladder went on for miles. _Eternally._

As we climb, I can practically hear the Earth spinning. And then, the scent of Jasmine engulfs us both.

Mother had always believed that the world was made of Magic. Magic we couldn’t _hope_ to control, but could aim to understand. When I was younger, she warned me to hold my breath around the scent of night-blooming Jasmine, if we didn’t want to give away all of our secrets - Since _she_ believed that it was near- _impossible_ to prevent them dragging the truth from your lips, once you caught a whiff of them. So, despite my better instincts, I hope that in _this_ case, this _particular_ piece of hogwash is true. I want to know Simon’s secrets. To peer into all the deep, restricted segments of his mind. 

Once we reach the top, he pulls a torch from the pocket of his hoodie and shines our way over to his telescope. It emits a red light, rather than white, he explains, so that we don’t lose our night vision. Which is so nerdy, I want to scream (In the best possible way, of course. _He’s unreal. Utterly alien. Totally stellar._ And I’m unfurling besides him; hopeless against his unintentional charm). 

He busies himself with a bag resting at the foot of the telescope, and I turn towards the water. Listening to the gentle crashing of the far-away waves, imagining all the shimmering scales swept up within it’s endless, hypothermic blue. 

“I could never be a fish,” I say. 

“Me neither,” he answers, words obscured by the butt of his torch which he’s holding in his mouth, so that his hands are free to rifle through the bag. 

“Maybe an Eel, though,” I continue, amazed by the constant broadcasting of thoughts which I would normally keep locked up inside. His Realm of Calm seeming to - At least _temporarily_ \- soothe the panic and overthink switch into pause. “It would be cool, I think, to have electric body parts, you know? Like your hair”. 

His laugh comes, still noticeably muffled by his torch, and practically strikes me comatose with happiness. Perhaps the reason I’ve been so quiet all these years, isn’t anything to do with what Fiona’s therapist suggested (She forced me to go after Mother. I skived out after two sessions), but simply because I hadn’t yet found _Simon_ to pour my words into. 

He takes a book out of the bag, and flips through it - Tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, in concentration - until he finds what he’s looking for. He passes it over to me, and leans over my shoulder so that he can shine the torch - Wiped clean against his jeans and safely back in his hands - onto the page. 

“Here,” he says. “Draco.”

I feel a wisp of his hair brush against my cheek, and hold my breath. The curve of my stomach, taut and unmoving. I feel like I might cry - Throat thick and eyes demanding attention - but I’m not sad (Or panicked, or angry, or any of the other horrible, knotty feelings I’m used to). Just … overwhelmed. My heart swollen by him; too large to be repressed within my chest. Straining against my ribs, and seeping out of my skin. Surrounding us both, in a saccharine haze. 

I hum, forgetting my words. 

“That star -” he says, pointing down to the book. “-is Elaton (Which is an epic name for a fantasy hero, by the way). And that’s Rastaban. Together, they make the eyes of the Dragon.”

He takes a glow-in-the-dark pen out of his pocket, and starts drawing onto the page. Sketching light lines between the paper stars to form a faint, angular snake. 

I can smell his shampoo, his scent - Apple and hospital-style hand soap. I breathe him in deeply. _Silently. Do guys normally stand this close together, barely a hair apart? I wish I’d paid more attention to these sorts of things before. To how normal people interact._ I have no reliable reference point to go off of and I’m flaking; fingers trembling against my thighs. I can’t be sure that they won’t escape me and reach over to him, daring to touch the forbidden skin of his wrist. Or his neck. Or his face. Or his _anything._

I slide them into the safety of my pockets, and wrap my fingers around the rock he gave me. Controlled. 

“You know in the past people found stories in the stars?” he asks. 

I shake my head and he rests his palms against my shoulders, lightly. Spinning me on the spot and pointing up towards the sky. 

“Up there are the Twins’ heads, in the Gemini constellation. Castor and Pollux. One mortal, one immortal.”

His hands are still pressed against me - Burning against my copper skin, through the failing fabric of my shirt. The weight of them the only anchor preventing me from floating away entirely. 

He keeps talking, words made anew by his unbridled passion. 

“When Castor died,” he says. “Pollux missed him too much - Found it unbearable - so he made a deal to share his immortality with his brother. That’s how they ended up in the sky. As stars.”

“I’d do that,” I breathe, turning around in his grip to look at him once more, his lop-sided grin inches from mine. “No doubt.” 

“Yeah? I guess it must be, like, a family thing,” he shrugs, misunderstanding.

My face flushes, because I’d meant him, not some unborn imaginary brother. Although, thankfully, it goes unseen, hidden away by the dark of the night. I’d share my immortality with him. _I’d share every piece of myself with him, if he’d let me._ I want to say so - To blurt out every hopeless, lovesick adoration spiralling around my mind. _But I won’t. I can’t. He wouldn’t want me to._

“The Twins are thought to be responsible for shipwrecks, too. Supposedly, they appear to sailors as St Elmo’s Fire, and just like … fuck them over. Do you know what that is?” He asks, failing to wait for an answer and jumping straight into Einstein mode. “It’s not even a fire. It’s an electrical weather phenomenon where some _seriously_ freaky luminous plasma is created because charged particles separate and create electric fields, which in turn create this corona discharge-” 

“Whoa.” I say, because … _Woah._

He laughs, but continues on just as incomprehensibly. And, while I can’t keep up with all the sciency mumbo jumbo, I think I get the jist of what he’s saying, so I just … let him go. Watching the sparking of his neurons escape his skull, and whirl all around him. _I’ll have to paint him like this later. Surrounded by science and fascination._

He turns and shines the torch in my face, and I see him as he is - A tangle of selves all jumbled into one perfect being. There’s this Einstein one. The crazy laughing guy. The Axe - _Whatever that means._ And there’s more too, beneath. _I know it._ Hidden ones. _Truer_ ones. _Because why else is his inside face so worried? Why else would he be afraid?_

“Crazy, isn’t it?” He asks. “That stuff like that really happens. Like … in real life.” 

I smile, grabbing hold of the torch and shining it against him, because I don’t know what to say. _I’d give up eternity for you. I love you. I want to belong with you. Absolutely not!_

I take him in greedily. Broad shoulders and squinting eyes. The wind billowing his shirt against his chest. I want to reach out and flatten the rippled fabric with my hand. Want it so bad, I feel my mouth run dry. 

It’s not just me that’s staring this time, either. I can feel his eyes on me - Can see them. Trailing down to my shoes and slowly (So _thrillingly_ slowly), back up to my face. 

I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out exposingly deep. I forget to answer his question, but he doesn’t seem to care _(Even though it’s impolite. And probably awkward)._ “The smell of Jasmine makes people tell their secrets.” 

He sniffs inquiringly. “And is that …?” 

“Yeah,” I croak. 

“Why do you even think that I have secrets to spill?” He asks, crossing his arms stubbornly. _Please don’t be mad. I just want to know you. Just want to see your inside face on the outside. I don’t want to upset him. I should stop pushing. I should -_

“Everyone does. It’s not an accusation, just a truth.” 

He smirks, swatting at my upper arm. “Tell me one of yours then, Picasso.”

I think for a moment, and settle on a relatively harmless secret. _Safe, but not so safe that I won’t get something good in return. I hope._

“I spy on people, sometimes.”

“Who is ‘people’?” He asks. 

“Pretty much everyone,” I mumble. “Normally I’m drawing, but … not always. Sometimes I just watch. But, uh, not in a _creepy_ way, just in a … curious way.” 

He chuckles. “It’s cool, man, I get it. Have you ever gotten caught?” 

“Not until you,” I admit. 

“So … you ever spy on me?” 

My breath catches at the question. The _whole_ truth is that after a thorough investigation, I’ve found his room to be entirely spy-proof. _Which is unfairly disappointing._

“No,” I say. “Your go now.” 

He nods his head towards the sea. “I can’t swim. I _hate_ the water - Even hearing it is enough to set me off. Baths freak me out. Sharks freak me out. Living here with that … blue monster freaks me out. So … your go.” 

“I hate sports.”

“Even football?” 

“Yep,” I smile. “Even football.” 

“But you’re so fast! I bet you’d be great at it. Maybe we should play together sometime. I can give you some tips.” 

I can’t help the pleased little laugh that escapes me _(I wish I could. It’s girlish and juvenile. And entirely attractive)._

“Yeah. Cool. Maybe ... Your go.” 

He licks at his bottom lip and exhales shakily. “I’m claustrophobic” he frowns. “I can’t be an Astronaut now, like I wanted, which fucking sucks.” 

I crinkle my brow. “You weren’t always?” 

He turns away from me, and I catch a glimpse of his inside face again. _Worried. Always worried._ “No. Your turn.” 

My turn. _I want to be in a thimble with you. I want to put my hands on your chest. I want to be stars with you. I want you to burn me with all your sunshine._

I flick off the torch. It’s easier that way. 

“I keyed Father’s car once, when I was angry.” 

“I nicked a telescope from my secondary school. I probably got the lab tech told off, but I didn’t think about that at the time.” 

“I wish I was magic, like my Mum.” 

I can tell he’s smiling, and then not. “My … Dad, Davy left when I was a baby. Mum wouldn’t let him mess me up how he wanted, so he dipped.”

I pick at the corner of my nail. “For a while … I wished that my Father would. Leave, that is.” 

“Yeah. I understand. Trust me though, you _don’t_ want that. Not realy,” he says, voice more serious than I’ve ever heard it. “My Mum spends half of her time on this website called ‘The Unsent Project’, writing him notes he’s never going to see. Never going to _want_ to see.”

He scoffs, and then silence descends. Silence I don’t know how to appropriately fill. 

“Oh,” he drones. “Still my go, huh? … I work on Maths problems in my head, all the time. Even on the pitch.”

“Even now?” I ask.

“Even now,” he nods. 

“Like me and my mind-painting.” 

“Yeah probably,” he chuckles. “What’s inside your mind is probably prettier than what’s in mine, though.” 

“I'm scared that I’m rubbish.” 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.” 

“I mean like … _really_ rubbish. At everything.”

“Yeah,” he affirms. “Me too.” 

I close my eyes and take a breath. The quiet rumble of the ocean, masked by the pounding of blood in my vessels. My heart, entirely erratic. 

“I’ve never kissed anybody.” 

“None one?” he asks, staring over at me. _Seeing right through me._ “No one, meaning … no one? Does that ... _mean_ something?” 

I leave the meaning up to his interpretation. “No one.” 

The moment stretches uncomfortably. Stretches and stretches and stretches. Until it snaps. 

“I have. I … shouldn’t have though.”

 _What? What does that mean?_ I flip the torch back onto his face. He’s blinking, looking uneasy and afraid. _Embarrassed._ I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows once. Twice. He has the showiest swallow I’ve ever seen. It drags on, mercilessly, just ... _demanding_ attention. 

“Why not?”

“I didn’t really want to. I just thought I should. First time … It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you should do just for the sake of it.” He catches me gawking, and takes the torch from my hand. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t even know why I told you.” 

_I want him to tell me more. I want him to tell me everything about himself._ But … he turns around and takes the telescope back in hand. _End of conversation._

I wait in the cold air left where his body once was, until the lump in my throat subsides. _I just need to relax. I’m fine. He’s not mad. I can fix this. I don't need to panic. I'm okay._

“Okay,” he says, the beginnings of a smile returned to his voice. “It’s all set up. Take a look, Baz. It’s mad.” 

I line myself up to the eyepiece - The bridge of my nose bumping against the metal clumsily - and all the stars descend on my head. Showering me in everything the cosmos has to offer. 

I gasp, and I feel him step closer. “I knew you’d love it.” He says; his voice like a bonfire. _Warm. Crackling. Something the deranged part of my brain wants to jump into._

“I just _knew_ it!” he exclaims. “If I were an artist, I’d probably go _mental.”_

I need something to hold onto - Something that isn’t him. I grab one of the telescope legs. No one has ever been this excited to show me something. Not Mother. Not Fiona. And _definitely_ not Father. His head is practically bobbling. And so is mine - He called me an artist. _A proper artist._

He presses closer and surrounds me in his arms, leaning over and tugging at a lever which sends the stars zooming towards us.

“Can you see the Twins?” He asks. “They should be in one of the upper quadrants.” 

I don’t tell him so, but I can’t see a thing. I’ve got my eyes closed. 

All I care about is the infinity happening right here, on this roof. I can feel his breathing against the back of my neck, and I’m scrabbling in my mind, trying to think of the right response. The one which will keep his hand on the lever. Which will keep him close to me.

“I don’t think I see them,” I try. And yes! _That was right!_

He shuffles and brings everything closer towards me - The stars, his heat, my impending neural collapse - and my heart stops.

We’re practically one being now. My back is to his front, and if I allowed myself to, I could move backwards and swoon into him completely. And then … if life were a movie - If life were _perfect_ \- He’d put his hands all over me. I’d twist into him and we’d melt together like hot wax. _Bazandsimon;_ entirely inseparable. I can see it clearly in my mind. Crashing into him with ease. Smooth, _mindless_ movements. Just me and him; none of the … noise. None of the Earth’s problems weighing us down. Just … two twin stars, free within their own infinity. I don’t move. _I don’t dare to._

“Well?” He whispers, breathing the word more than he says it. Proving that he feels it _too._ The electricity of the moment. All the tantalizing possibilities pushing us together.

Everything is happening to us, all at once. _Unstoppable and uncertain. Uncontrollable and - God, what am I doing? I don’t know how to … this. How to have everything I want in the palm of my hand, and not mess it up. Not ruin the moment. Not kill his fire. Not … be me. I can't. I want to ... but I - I can't._

“I have to go,” I say, helpless. 

Because, no matter how hard I try, I always end up back _here._ I’m not a star. I’m not infinite. I’m just Baz. Firmly pinned to the ground, unable to float free. An Earthling in the presence of an Alien. _Different. Unfitting. Deluded._ My twisted brain, dragging me to defy every _desperate_ cell in my body. Hiding me away behind the _exact_ opposite of what I _really_ want. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, stepping away. Metres and metres of distance tearing between us. _Mile after unbearable mile._ The magnetic string between our chests, pulling and snapping apart. Severed by my own, unending fear. _All my fault. Always all my fault._ “Okay. That’s fine, Baz.”

But it’s not. It’s the _furthest_ thing from fine. It’s hollow. It’s scarred. It’s nothing, where we could have had everything. And I can’t stand it. 


	4. Chapter Four

There’s a gaggle of girls perched up on a pile of rocks when Simon and I come out of the woods the next day. Agatha, Phillipa, and some red-head whose name I can’t quite remember _(Mavis? Maggie? Marie? I don’t know and, to be honest, I don’t particularly care)._

When she catches sight of us, Agatha jumps up in a swish of blonde silk, and forms a bikini-clad roadblock in our path. Cutting off his story about a boy in Croatia who is magnetic, that he found online. _Apparently,_ his family and friends can throw coins (And saucepans) at him, and they stick. Which, according Simon, is indeed _entirely_ possible, for some stupidly complicated reason I could never hope to really understand _(Not for lack of trying, I might add)._

She looks like she’s just found a new play thing, and I _know_ it isn't me (Girls have never seemed to like me. Although ... I suppose that it's fair enough, given that that disinterest is reciprocated). She’s smiling - All glossy pink lips and sparkling white teeth - but she’s bored behind the eyes. Simon doesn’t seem to notice, though. He’s too busy staring down at the sliver of starkly pale skin, peeking out from where her top has slipped slightly. 

I watch him watching her, stomach churning bitterly. I want to clap my hands over his eyes _(She doesn't deserve them on her)._ I want to wrap her up in an towel and just ... make him stop. But, she’s so _annoyingly_ beautiful that I doubt that it would make much of a difference (She could probably still enchant him, wearing a bin bag). So, instead, I just stand there, waiting for it all to be over. Silently seething, while ogles her.

And it's hardly a one sided affair _(Much to my discomfort)_. She's ogling him right back. Registering the way his T-shirt falls like water over his broad chest. His thick footballer's thighs. The little gap between his front teeth. The hundreds and thousands of moles adorning his skin. The blue of his eyes. The reckless jumble of his curls. 

“Wow!” she grins. “Where have _you_ been hiding all my life?” _Yep. Definitely not talking to me._

“Wouldn't _you_ like to know?” He teases. Speaking with a smoothness that strikes me cold.

Another Simon is emerging, I can tell. One I’m _certain_ I’m not going to like. Like a toad changing it's skin, he's adapting, seamlessly, before my eyes, while I stay as I am. _I always stay as I am. Even when I don't want to._

 _My_ Simon isn't effortlessly cool or flirtatious. My Simon is stumbling and shy. Taut with tension, always. A face of worry, haunting its way into view from wherever he tries to bury it.

She takes a step forwards and grabs a hold of his necklace. “You religious?”

“Nope,” he says, grinning up at her. “It’s lucky.”

“Lucky how?”

“Lucky in the way that ... good things happen when I wear it.”

It’s _possible_ that he glances over at me, for just a second, when he says it. But, like many things in this world - Global peace, snow on Christmas, Four-leaf Clovers, whatever happened up on that roof last night - while _technically_ possible, it’s _extremely_ unlikely. I’m probably just letting my head get away from me again. Hopeful imaginings stirred up by some ... naïve teenage crush.

“So ...” Agatha starts. “What are we supposed to call you? Mr Lucky? The _Axe?_ _The great Chosen One of Football,_ like all the guys? Or ... shall we just keep it simple? Call you by your given name?”

“Simon is fine,” he shrugs. “It’s the off season, anyways, so we’ll just ... save the nicknames for now, yeah?”

“Okay, Simon,” she drawls, acting like she invited the name. “You can call me Agatha. Or, _'Worlds greatest dressage competitor'_ during my on season.”

He laughs at that _(Properly_ laughs), and I want to tear my hair out. Or hers (But that would just be a _totally_ prick-ish move, even for me).

And then, she's turning her gaze onto me. I nod, pointlessly, unwillingly acknowledged. _So bloody awkward._

“Picasso!” she shrills. “What are _you_ doing out here?”

I turn to Simon, begging for him to save me. 

“He’s with me,” he says, no trace of shame in his voice, as he nudges our shoulders together. “My partner in crime, Baz.”

“Ah ...” she hums. “I see. You know he’s some kind of prodigy, right? It’s _crazy._ You should see his A level piece, it's like ... I don't even know. It's great.”

He turns to me and nods, biting at his lower lip. “'Course. I’ve seen enough of his sketches."

I want to hide myself away, but their eyes are all over me now. Every part of me melting under their admiring (And, I _think,_ completely un-sarcastic) spotlight.

I yank at my sleeves, and tuck my hands away within the fabric. Freeing that little bit of skin from scrutiny. 

“Do you do commissions?" she asks. "Maybe I could let you draw me sometime, yeah? My parents are always nagging me to sit for a more up-to-date portrait.”

I feel myself beginning to topple, when Simon props me back up with his words.

“Nah," he sighs, chuckling softly as he crosses his arms over his chest. _“You’d_ be lucky if _he_ let _you_ pose for him sometime. 'Cause he should be charging _hundreds_ for them.”

I grow about six feet taller, before Agatha slaps a teasing hand against her wrist and mewls over at Simon; instantly crushing me back down to regular size. “Bad girl. Got it.”

And it's at _this_ moment, that I begin seriously considering an act of arson. Because _somehow_ that earns her a grin, which she mirrors right back. Both of them shining together, saturated in shades of white and gold. The perfect pair, preforming in front of me - _The cabbage-head._ Stood idly by as chemistry ignites. 

Mercifully, after a few painful beats, the rest of the girls slip themselves off of the rock and rally besides Agatha. Like a nest of perfumed Hornets, swarming all around him. 

“Do you surf?” Maybe-Maggie asks.

“I’m not really into the beach,” he shrugs, eliciting a _painful_ wave of disbelieving squeals. “Me and the sea don't get along, I’m afraid.”

He raises the necklace to his mouth and bites down gently. I watch Phillipa take notice, before opening a _very_ regrettable can of worms, with a request to try it on. The rest of them erupting into a chorus of _‘Let me try it on! No me not her!’_ , as I struggle under the pressure of keeping my jaw claw clenched shut, and words trapped in.

Simon, however, doesn’t seem fazed by it in the slightest. Reaching up behind his neck and unclipping the chain with a smirk. _So bloody smooth. Like ... James Bond level smooth. _

“You choose then,” Agatha says, confident that she’ll win.

He hesitates, circling his head around between each of their hopeful faces. 

“I couldn’t,” he declines, nodding his head down to the floor, shyly. “Unless ...”

He steps towards me, closing the gap between us. Holding my eyes with his, as he lifts the necklace over my head and closes the clasp, leaving it hanging, heavy, against my chest. His cocksure smirk nowhere to be seen. 

He chose me - _Me of all people!_ \- and I’m high off of it. Body elated with reams of joyful bubbles, fizzing beneath my skin.

That is ... until I realise that they’re all laughing at me, like they've just witnessed the funniest thing in the world. Which maybe they have. _Was I smiling too obviously? Do they suspect me? Is he laughing too - In his head? Is that why he did it, just to make me a joke? He wouldn't - My Simon wouldn’t. But ... maybe this Simon - The girls’ Simon - would. There’s so many sides to him, it’s hardly ludicrous to imagine that some of them could. That some of them would._

“Cop out,” Agatha scoffs. Stepping behind me and plucking it from my neck, like I’m nothing but a minor, unfeeling irritation within her flirting storm, and handing it back to Simon with a disapproving shake of her head. “Now choose. _Properly.”_

He shoots her a smile and wraps the necklace around her, gently freeing the ends of her hair from underneath the chain. _Just like she knew he would;_ face breaking out with the glow of victory. _Mission accomplished._

He leans back on his heels and regards her. “Suits you, Little Miss Lucky.” _God, I could chunder._

 _I want to kick him in the head. Forcefully._ But instead, I force my voice out - All warbling and weak - and allow for my escape. Desperate to leave before I humiliate myself further, or otherwise crumble, or cry, or just ... be _me_ again. “Gotta’ go,” I mutter. “I’m late for dinner. Sorry.”

Embarrassingly, for one last hopeful moment, I think that Simon might follow me; but that moment quickly withers. He stays put. Throwing me nothing more than a regretful little lip quirk, and a quiet "Later, Picasso." 

_Picasso._ It sounds like he’s taking the piss when he says it like that - When he says it like everybody else.

My heart breaks out my body, and hitchhikes it’s way over to Siberia. Burying itself in amongst the Polar Bears and Ibex, until it’s nothing but a teeny-tiny iceberg. Ready to shatter under the slightest additional weight. I trudge behind it, empty. Because ... I i _magined_ it. _All of it._ Last night clearly wasn’t what I thought it was.

Here’s the truth: he adjusted the lever on a telescope. _Nothing more._ I just ... _happened_ to be stood in the way, that's all. _Pathetic. Entirely fucking pathetic._

I think back to all the times I’ve gotten _‘Baz has an overactive imagination’_ scrawled onto my school reports. _Over and over again. Year after year._ This was - This was just another manifestation of that. _My imagination. My pitiful, dreamy imagination._

When I get home, I slam the door behind me, and stomp up into my bedroom without a word. Ignoring my Aunt’s concerned call. Ignoring my Father’s silence. Ignoring the world sliding back into dulled tones around me. And just ... settling myself down in front of the window, to watch them. 

The sky is overflowing with orange clouds, and each time one strays down too low, Simon bats it right back up. I watch him hypnotise the world, in the way that only _he_ can. The wind and the trees, the grass and the sunset above, and of course ... the girls. They’re in the haze of his charm, laughing at something he said and pressing the pink of their palms to his biceps. The gnarled parasite of jealousy, flooding me with its acrid (And _entirely_ misplaced) possessiveness.

I want to look away, but I cant - I _mustn’t._ So, I sit and watch. Telling myself that he didn’t _find_ me. That he’s not some marvellous extra-terrestrial. That he’s _not_ a fellow drifter at all. He’s just a boy. A boy who saw someone around his age and mistakenly befriended him, before somebody better came along and saved him. I was just a placeholder, and the sooner I accept that, the _better._ He doesn’t _owe_ me anything. I shouldn’t have _expected_ anything. So now ... I’ve just got to lay in the bed I made for myself, no matter how uncomfortable it may be.

_Reality is crushing, and the world is a wrong sized shoe that I’ll simply never fit into properly. That’s just the way it is._

I stay, staring, until darkness fills the room. Until the four of them head off, away and out of my sight. Simon’s lucky necklace, hung around Agatha’s lucky neck.

He doesn’t turn to look at me. Not even for a second.

I try not to dwell on it. 

* * *

When the sun rises on a new day, I don’t go up onto the roof. I know where I’m wanted, and where I’m not.

I’ve decided that I’m not leaving my room until Simon is back at Watford - Until the safety of miles between us has been re-established. It’s _only_ seven weeks away, now. I’ve hidden for longer than that, before, when I've had to. I can drink the plant water if I get thirsty, and I have enough bags of Salt and Vinegar crisps hidden under my bed to last half a lifetime. I’ll be fine. More than fine, actually. _Better. Clearer._

So here I'll stay, star-fished out on my bed, listening to Fiona arguing on the phone next-door, and staring up at my ceiling print of Munch’s _‘The Scream’_ (A painting of a guy blowing his casket in a _major_ way. Like me. Right now. Just ... considerably nicer to look at).

Waiting for the weeks to pass. Second over dragging second. Just me and my faulty brain. _Superb._

Some time later, I remember that it’s Thursday, which means life drawing lessons at the Institute. Which _means_ an early (But _temporary)_ end to my house arrest.

Thankfully, my stand and footstool are still where I left them last week. I set them up, methodically, reassuring myself that nothing else matters besides getting that acceptance notification from UCAS. That I don’t _need_ Simon. If I get bored, Fi will always be there to take me out somewhere. And ... if I have too much time, I could just ... try and get a job. Get some extra money for art supplies.

The teacher begins the class - Accompanied by a different, brunette, female model - lecturing about positive and negative space, and how to use it correctly. About how to draw within the space around a form, to reveal the form itself. Like carving a statue from a block of stone.

I’ve never tried it before, so I quickly get lost in the exercise. Concentrating intently on finding the model within my sheet of paper, by drawing everything that isn't her. The curve of light around her hip, the folds of the photo-drape. 

And yet, in the second half of the lesson, my mind starts to drift backwards again. So I find myself sitting down on the ground, back to the wall, drawing _him_ in this new outside-in way. Even though I swore to myself that I’d never make him my subject again. Even though it's probably needlessly self-sabotaging. I just ... can't help myself. He’s in me now, and I have to get him out. Sketch after sketch pouring out of me. The pursuit of freedom etched in charcoal and colour, curls and a hundred hidden faces.

I’m focusing so hard, that I don’t notice anyone approaching me until my light gets blocked. I spring back, surprised, an embarrassing garbled sound spilling out of my mouth, as my brain catches up and recognises that it’s him. Simon - The _real_ Simon - stood _right_ in-front of me.

He has no meteorite bag. No magnet rake, either. Which means ... he came all the way down here, just to find me. _Again._

I do my best to keep all of the joy _behind_ my outside face, rather than _on_ it. Mindful not to get ahead of myself _(Again)._ Careful not to scare him away.

“I waited for you this morning,” he says, licking at his bottom lip so nervously - So _perfectly_ \- that my chest clenches with pain.

He glances down at my pad. I flip the cover over to stop him seeing himself, and stand. Looking down at him from my three foot advantage, and motioning him back towards the forest. Away from prying ears. Back into our own private world of emerald and ivy. 

I stash the equipment away, taking my chance to privately gulp in a few deep, calming breaths. Praying that my knees won’t give out. _Praying that I won’t disintegrate entirely._

When I get out into the Wavering Woods, he’s leant against the same tree as last time. In his typical not-quite-casual manner. 

“So ...” he says as we start to walk. “Was _he_ there today? That ... model guy.”

If there’s one thing I how to read in a voice, thanks to my years of careful outside analysis, it’s jealousy. And that - well _that_ is _definitely_ jealousy. I let out an obscenely happy breath (Even though I'm supposed to be acting at least a _little_ cross with him). 

“No,” I smile _(I'm weak for him, okay? Sue me)._ “I saw him arguing with the Professor the other day, so I’m pretty sure he got booted.”

“Fair enough,” he nods, staring down at his hands.

I wait for him to say something, but silence envelopes us (Bar the gentle crunching of our footsteps), as we walk on, wordlessly. Time ticking on in the background, all around us.

“Baz?”

I grab a breath and hold myself firm. _How can somebody just saying your name make you feel like this? Like you're drowning, but you're not afraid? Like you're falling, without a ground to stop you?_

“Yeah?” I whisper, eyes flickering across his face. It’s racing with emotion, but I can’t tell what kind it is. I count the moles in his arms to distract myself, giving him the floor. _One, two, three ..._

Thirty eight moles later, he still hasn’t said anything. I don't want to push him but ... I'm getting jittery. And hot. And fuzzy. 

“Simon? -“

“It’s like this,” he blurts, startling even himself. “There are all these planets that get ejected from the systems they originate in, and they just ... wander on their own through deep space, right? Just going their lonely way across the universe without a sun. Like ... _Forever.”_

His eyes are begging for me to understand something, and I wish - More than anything - that I did.

I think about what he just said - About everything that we are. He’s mentioned them before, these lonely, drifting, sunless planets. But ... s _o what? What does that actually mean? That he doesn’t want to be an outsider like me? That he wants to go after the popular kids, now that he has a definite in with the girls? That he wants to stay in a well-populated solar system?_

I turn to go, deciding that I’d _really_ rather not hear whatever it is that he has to say, in person. If he wants to ditch me, that’s fine. But he doesn’t get to do it like this. He doesn’t get to see me cry (Which I _definitely_ will. Because I’m a mess. Because I’m a _constant_ disappointment to myself).

“No,” he groans, grabbing hold of my sleeve _(My sleeve!)_

The Earth pauses on its axis, waiting with bated breath, as everything but him, fades into nothing. 

“Fucking hell!” He groans, scrunching a hand in his hair and tugging in frustration. “Just - I just ...”

For some reason, his stammering reassures me. “Just what?” I prompt.

He stumbles forwards and wraps a hand around the back of my neck. Roughened fingertips brushing against the ends of my hair. The tip of his trainers pressed firmly against mine.

“Just don’t worry, okay? Please, Baz.” The words fly out of his mouth, looping around my heart and yanking it out of my chest. Because I finally know what he’s saying - What he _really_ means.

“Worry about what?” I say, just to mess with him.

He pulls his hand away, back into his own space, and graces me with a shy half smile. “About getting hit on the head by a falling asteroids. It’s _extremely_ unlikely, so don’t stress.”

“Fantastic,” I whisper, beaming over at him. “I won’t.”

And just like that, I stop worrying (Well ... worrying about him, anyway. At least for now). Because I promised. Because it’s _important._

I don’t worry when, a few seconds later, he says “I totally saw what you were drawing back there, by the way” with a full-on grin.

I don’t worry about blowing Fiona off that night - And every other one, following.

I don’t worry that, overtime, I seem to become cool-by-association. That I start getting invited to ‘The Spot’. That I get to hang out with Simon (And countless hornet-y girls and wannabe surfers) all wrapped up in his ‘Realm of Calm’. That I hardly ever feel like I hostage when I’m around them all. That, once I settle in, I seem to know what to do with my hands, and what to say when. That nobody tries to lob me off of the cliff, or laugh in my face. That they all call me Picasso, without the usual snarl of distaste. I don’t worry about how, once you commit yourself, it isn’t as impossible to pretend to be like everyone else, as I had thought. That with a little mimicry, and use of strategic escape lines when a panic attack too big to suppress starts brewing, they all seem to forget who I was, wilfully. _Who I really am, still, underneath it all._

I don’t worry that when Simon and I are alone, he puts up an electric fence between us - One I’m never brave enough to risk bumping into. But, when we’re in public, at The Spot or ... hanging out in the shopping centre (Which is _apparently_ the popular kids' favourite past time?), he lets us become clumsy magnets. Constantly bumping and knocking against one another. Grazing our hands, our arms, our legs, our shoulders. Tapping each other on the back (Or sometimes even the leg) for no real reason, other than it feels like swallowing a lightening bolt.

I don’t worry that all through the showing of the alien invasion movie he told me about, our legs drift together microscopically. That half way through the movie, they finally find each other, and neither of us pulls back. That his thigh presses firmly against mine for one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, _eight_ delirious seconds of Adrenaline. That I have to get up and lock myself away in the bathroom because I’m exploding so violently, I have no hope of concealing it. That when I return to my seat, it starts right back up _all over again._ Thighs, and knees, and shins, and ankles; our entire lower halves locked together. Except this time, he reaches out further and grabs my hand beneath the arm-rest. Squeezing our palms together until we’re both alight. I don’t worry that Agatha and Phillipa were _right there_ when all of this was going on. I just take it as it was. 

I don’t worry that Agatha still hasn’t given Simon his cross back - That she’s taken to wearing it every time we see her. That, when I’m not focussed on the way her brown eyes linger on him for a little _too_ long, I can feel the green of Phillipa’s boring into _my_ side.

I don’t worry that Simon never kisses me - Or that I never kiss him. No matter how much mind control I try to exert on him. No matter how much I pray to every _molecule_ I come across, for it to happen. We never cross that line. 

But, as it turns out ... I should’ve been. I should’ve been practically _cataclysmic_ with worry. Because, no matter how _hard_ I tried to pretend that it was all alright, everything was about to fall apart.


	5. Chapter Five

Simon is leaving for Watford tomorrow morning. So tonight, I’m in the depths of the underworld, looking for him, while I still have a chance.

I’ve slapped on a brave face, donned my favourite shirt (A divine silken Navy, adorned with embroidered wildflowers), and prepared myself for the unknown.

I’ve never actually _been_ to a party before - Never walked amongst Lynx-scented demons, with hair aflame and plastic cups in hand - so, I’m a little shaken. But, I’m fairly certain that none of them can actually _see_ me.

Phillipa’s parents are out of town for the weekend, so we decided that we’d highjack her older sisters’ party, and claim it as a going away bash for Simon. For a last minute arrangement, it’s not half bad, but that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t _want_ to waving him off. I _want_ to be going away _with_ him (Or, at the very least, get an assurance that he’ll be back soon). But ... the world is not so kind.   
  


  
I head down a smokey hallway, pinched with clumps of people, pressed up against the walls. No ones’ face sitting quite right.

In the next room, people are dancing. After I look around and ensure that Simon isn’t here yet, I lean myself against the wall and take it all in. A bustling mob of gleaming, sweating people. A jumble of piercings, and plumage, and windmilling arms, thrashing about as they jump, and sway, and spin, and lift off into the air.

I stare and I stare, getting eaten alive by the music’s base, until I can’t bare the vividity of it any longer. Drifting away, alone, until I think up a plan.

I’ll catch him outside, before he even has the _chance_ to open up the front door, and get swept away from me, all over again. I’ll convince him to come up to the roof, instead, so that we can drown in the starlight one last time. So that maybe (If I’m lucky), what we’ve avoided all summer, may _finally_ happen.   


I start towards the door, but spot him on my way out, following Agatha up the staircase. Blending himself in, seamlessly. Gliding through the crowd, which seems to part around him, nodding his head to all the guys, and returning the girls’ smiles with a charming quirk of his lips. Absurdity, in its most mesmerising form. _How does he just ... belong everywhere he goes? How does he have a face, perfectly fit to any situation? How does he have a key to every lock I’ve failed to open?_

When he reaches the stairs’ summit, he turns and leans himself against the banister, eyes searching the room, and - _Christ, he’s looking for me. He has to be. There’s nobody else to left to find._

His worried face is shining through again, and the knowledge that he’s nervous - Nervous to talk to _me,_ in a house _full_ of _far_ better people - shape-shifts me into a waterfall. Impossibly ferocious, buoyed by a guilty sense of accomplishment.

 _Can you die from this feeling? I’m thinking that you probably can._ It’s grazing at the edges of every charmed cell in my body, exhausting them with unfamiliar delight. I can’t even draw, or paint it out of me anymore. Now, when it comes on - Which it does. _All the time_ \- I just have to lay back, and let it wash me away. Let it fill my lungs and drown me.

Agatha tugs on his arm, gently, and he snaps out of his haze. Trailing after her, without having found me. Leaving me a person, once more.

I squeeze myself up the stairs behind them, head hung low to avoid any eye contact. _I’m here for him, no one else._

I’ve almost made it, when an unknown arm loops itself in mine, and stops me dead. A gothed-out girl, with bleach-gone-wrong orange hair and smudged purple lips, holding a cup out towards me.

“You look like you need it, mate,” she says, smiling. “It’ll loosen you up. Trust me.”

I peer into the cup, unsure, and am knocked backwards by a whiff of nail varnish remover. Grimacing as I do, unable to keep it inside. 

“It’s a cocktail. A ‘Bullfrog’, you know? Don’t freak, you’ll be fine.”

I don’t really want it, but I don’t want to argue. I accept the drink, and turn, throwing her a thank you and continuing on my way. _I_ _mean ... I’m not exactly overflowing with confidence. So maybe she has helped me. Maybe a little Dutch courage could serve me well?   
_

Behind me, she slurs out a “He’s fit, isn’t he?” I assume that she’s taking the piss (Or talking from her supreme drunkenness, alone), but then someone else is scoffing a “What is it with you and tall, dark and handsome?”, so ... _I guess not?_

I don’t look back - I _can’t_ look back. Everything is so just so _bloody embarrassing._ Continuing upwards, face aflame and a grubby little tingle trailing up my spine. _Am I fit? I mean, that’s not possible ... is it?_ I’ve always just assumed that people look at me because they think I’m strange, not because they see something that they like. _How do you even know if you’re attractive? One drunken girl doesn’t confirm it, and ... it’s not like you can fancy yourself?_

I feel the rush of that one, all-consuming question, before I’ve even fully realised it: _Does Simon think I’m fit?_

The idea rushes down north and jerks me awake. _He grabbed my hand in the cinema. He did that, knowing full-well what ‘hand holding’ means - What it implies._

I stop and breathe, trying to get myself under control, the possibility of it buzzing around my body. _He’s upstairs right now, all I have to do is go to him. He’s laid the groundwork, and now it’s time for me to bite the bullet._ I knock back some ‘Bullfrog’ for courage, which I immediately regret (It’s practically corrosive, burning its entire way down my throat) and chase after him. _Because, finally, this is it - The moment. It has to be.  
_  
  


The second floor is considerably more homely than the first - Less sterile white marble, and more normal family clutter. There are a hundred closed doors up here, but which one did they go through? _I wish that girl hadn’t distracted me. What if they’re alone? What if they’re snogging? Or worse - What if he’s already tugging at the straps of her pretty purple dress? And ... okay - What the actual fuck is wrong with me? Why would I even think that?_

I make my way through endless empty toilets, and dark, abandoned bedrooms. _Where are they? He told me that it’s okay. He told me not to worry ... That was code, wasn’t it? Code for ‘I won’t get with Agatha.’._ I force down another gulp of green, worrying a real, real lot. Opening and closing doors as I race down the corridor.   


There’s a hidden-away alcove, and I accidentally catch two people in a frenzy of red, crackling snogging. Stepping backwards with a start, and waiting, before peeking back around the wall for another look _(Not in a creepy way, though. Just in a ... curiosity way. Not that, that really makes it any better)._

The guy’s back is strong, and narrows just-so into the belted band of his jeans. The girl sandwiched, snugly, between his body and the wall. No space for ambiguity, left between them. His head, moving against her’s in urgent waves, like he can’t kiss her hard, or fast enough. _Entirely insatiable.   
_

I’m telling myself to move on, before someone else sees and mistakes me for some pervy Peeping Tom, when something catches my eye. The girls’ hands reaching up and clutching onto the guys’ shoulders, aren’t girls’ hands at all. They’re sun-worn and rough, thicker than I’d first thought. Wrists, dusted with stripes of coarse black hair ... Unmistakably male, and unabashedly eager. _Holy fucking shit._

There’s a stampede rioting within my chest. I catch a flash of strong-boned male faces; eyes fluttered shut, straight noses smushed, and mouths crashing together. Bodies climbing up, and falling back down, in perfect unison. Moving together like they were made for this exact purpose - To hunger for one another. 

Every part of me is shaking. I see the canvas now: me falling, hopeless, amongst an internal earthquake. My skin made see-through, so that all of the animals in the zoo of my mind, which have broken out of their cages, are visible. Paints, loud and demanding.

I’ve never seen two guys kiss like this - Like the world is ending - except for in my own head (Or on my iPad screen, under the safety of a duvet), but that wasn’t even _half_ as good as the reality. They’re melding themselves together before me, all open passion and love.

I step away and steady myself against the wall, hidden from sight. I’m not sad (Ridiculously far from it, actually), but a sweep of tears still fill my eyes. My body, simply unable to contain the sublimity.

A few paces down from us, a door squeaks open. I scrub my eyes dry, quickly, with the back of my hand, and turn towards the sound - Towards Phillipa. The sight of her, sobering me from my dream, and pulling me back into the same, unwanted afternoon.

I’ve been ignoring her texts since the cinema. She thinks it was a date, I suppose, and I don’t know how to tell her that, at least in _my_ mind, it wasn’t, without sounding like an asshole. So ... she probably hates me right now _(Rightfully so)._

“Hey, you!” she says, grinning. “Where have to been?”

I shake my head out, so that hair curtains my face, as much as possible. Hiding myself away, plainly within her sight.

She’s steps towards me, closer to the three of us, and I kick back into gear, rushing over to intercept her. Her smile growing wider, as she misinterprets my protection of the kissing guys, as excitement to see her _(God, what is wrong with me? Why can’t I just ... tell her. She’s kind, she’d understand. Why do I keep letting her see all of these mixed signals as something I know they’re not? It’s cruel. Pathetic)._

In a rush of rambled words and floral perfume, she pulls me into a hug. I shove my mouth up into a smile. “Hiya. I was ... yeah. Where is everyone? I couldn’t find you guys.”

“You alright?” she asks, pulling away and tilting her head to the side. “You seem ... antsy. _Strange._ Or well ... stranger than usual, anyway.”

She smiles warmly - Genuinely - and I relax a little. Phillipa and I seem to have a secret, though I have no idea what it actually _is.   
_

_She’s kind, she’d understand. She’s not cross. You can explain yourself. Breathe, it’s fine. You’re fine._

I wish that I could tell her about what just happened to me - Because even though I wasn’t _technically_ involved, I _feel_ like it happened to me. But, she wouldn’t want to hear it; and what would I _even_ tell her, anyway? _‘Guess what? When I was spying on two strangers ...’ Absolutely not. The truth of it is far too grotesque._

“Maybe it’s this?” I say, lifting my cup with a shrug.

She giggles and mirrors my movement. “Yeah, me too. Your first time?”

The giggling takes me aback, and I fail to answer, leaving her hanging with an awkwardly long pause. There’s nothing giggly about her, _usually._ She’s the _opposite_ of that; hanging out with her, is like sitting in an empty church. She’s reliably quiet, never one to fill a conversation with useless noise. That’s partly why I like her so much. She talks to the wind, soft and serene. She’s a million scenic things, but never yet giggly.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Yeah, first time.”

She takes my hand and points towards the door, leading me towards it. 

“Everyone’s in here. We’ve been waiting for you. Well ... _I_ have, anyway.”

A supremely bad feeling strikes me, as I stare down at our connected hands, and realise what this must look like - To her. To _everyone._ But ... I don’t know how to fix it - How to make us just friends again. I just ... _I just have to focus on finding Simon, now. I’ll sort myself out and make my apologies to her later, since she’s not the one running on a time limit_

We get to some kind of den, with beanbags and bedding strewn out in a circle on the floor. I spot Simon straight away, sat across the room, talking with Agatha.

I wish that I could blink us both into the bodies of those guys in the alcove. I try it, just in case, but nothing happens. Then, I think about how many fingers I’d sacrifice for even a _minute_ like that, with him. _Seven? Eight? I could still draw with two fingers, if one was a thumb. It would be well worth the struggle, if I got to be with him._

Looking around, it’s mostly familiar faces - The same jumble of hornet-y girls and surf obsessed boys that hang out at ‘The Spot’. I’m used to these people by now, and them me. I still don’t quite ... fit, but they don’t seem to care so much about that, anymore.

Everyone’s standing about in awkward shuffling bunches, like they’re waiting for something. The air around us, exhausted with breath, and my bad feeling, compounding with new worries.

Simon is flopped down on the floor, loose, and _still_ talking to Agatha. _How is she even doing that? What are they talking about that’s got him so hooked?_ I try to listen-in subtly as we walk towards them, but Phillipa is trying to speak to me, so I don’t hear much of anything.

“It’s kinda’ stupid, right? I mean we haven’t played this game since, like, Year Seven, but whatever. We’re playing it ironically, so it’s - Well, you know, it’s just for fun.” _Has she been talking this whole time? Shit, I should’ve been listening. I’m such a prick._

“What?” I ask.

Agatha spins herself around at the sound of our voices. “Oh good,” she says, smiling perfectly as she nudges herself against Phillipa, who bursts out into giggles again. “It’s your lucky night, Picasso. You like party games?”

I’ve never actually _been_ to a party before, so I suppose that I don’t _really_ know, but I can make a pretty good guess. I _don’t_ like publicly embarrassing myself. I _don’t_ really care for drinking, so far. And, I am, for all intents and purposes, an _incredibly_ boring person. So _no,_ odds are that I hate them. _Odds are that, they’re just another unneeded opportunity for me to make a fool of myself.  
_

“Uh ...”

“Well,” she says. “You’ll _love_ this one, I promise. Simple premise. You get two people of the opposite sex in a cupboard for seven minutes, and just ... see what happens, right?”

Simon won’t meet my eyes, no matter how much mine beg him to.

“Don’t worry, Picasso. It’s _obviously_ fixed,” she continues. Phillipa’s ears flash red, and they lock arms with a laugh. My stomach tilts - _Fixed! What the fuck does she mean, fixed? Fixed, how?_

Agatha steps besides me, voice softening as she pats a hand to my shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’ll work out. Face it, Baz, you could use a little help. That’s all this is. A favour.”

She’s right, I could use help. Because coils and coils of well-meaning shiny blonde, and frizzy brown hair, are slithering around me like serpents. Looping around my neck and pulling me into a pre-planned game, I want no part in.   
  


I stumble over to Simon, without a word. Panic heavy in my throat.  
He _still_ won’t look at me, apparently preoccupied with staring over at the bookshelf. Blue eyes scanning the titles, like he’s going to be tested on them later.

 _‘I think I’m in love with you,’_ I say to him, but it comes out as, “Hey.”

 _‘Me too,’_ he says back, only it comes out as a strained “Baz.” The name clipped, and wrong in his mouth.   


Agatha picks a worn cap off of the table, filled with folded-up pieces of paper. _Oh, Jesus Christ. We need to get out of here, now._

She stands between the two of us, and presses a hand to Simon’s back. “All the guys’ names are already in here, including you two’s. All we need now, is for the girls to pick.”

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

Successful, she and Phillipa slip away. As soon I’m sure that they’re out of ear-shot, I turn towards him. Panic plain on his face, as it be on mine.

“Come on, let’s go,” I plead.

He carries on staring past me, and says nothing. So, I try again.

“Simon, please, come on. Let’s get out of here. Let’s just ... go, nobody will care. Come on, Si-“

“I don’t want to go, okay?” He says, words flooded with irritation. “It’s just a stupid game, Baz. It’s not a big deal. Just ... relax for once, would you?”

I study him, surprised. _Does he really want to play? I mean ... he does. He must. Nobody is making him, he just ... wants this. He wants to be with Agatha. If she’s fixed it, it’s going to be him - Going to be them. That’s why he won’t meet my eyes. Because he knows - He knows how I feel. I’ve managed to make my affections inescapably clear. But ... he doesn’t want me. He wants her. Obviously._

_But then ... why did he tell me not to worry? Why did he hold my hand? Why did he - why everything?_

The realisation drains the blood out of me. All the empty cages in my mind, rattling angrily. _How could I have read this so wrong?_

I turn away and walk over to an unoccupied cushion - Some cheap, faux-leather rock, that snaps my spine as I sit - wallowing there, shattered to pieces. Downing the rest of my drink like it’s water, and grabbing another abandoned cup of ... whatever, after I’m done, and starting on that too.

I don’t dare look at Simon. I just slump, defeated and newly woozy, and let whatever is going to happen, happen. The lights flashing on and off above me, Agatha and Phillipa grinning besides the switch.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” they holler. “The moment you’ve _all_ been waiting for has finally arrived.”

_This is what he wants, so let’s go ahead and get this over with, already. I’ve already lost, anyway. What’s a little more? _

An onslaught of heterosexual mundanity, steals the next hour from me (Though luckily, Simon and I manage to avoid the draft). Daniel and Lucy. Otterly and Kai. Gemma and Chris. Alex and Prachi. _On and on and on._

Everyone jeers and cheers, and generally acts embarrassing, when a new couple is selected - Filling the room with teasing ‘Ooh’s and ‘Ahh’s, or ear-breaching wolf whistles. Agatha making a display of setting Phillipa’s parent’s egg-timer, each and every time. _Very ‘Year Seven’, indeed.   
_

I stand with the help of a nearby dining chair, and drag myself over to the bathroom. Splashing a dose of icy tap-water, across my face.

I lift my head and stare into the mirror. _It’s still me there, isn’t it?_ Same grey eyes, same copper skin, same snooty eyebrows. Definitely _not_ fit. Just, the same old, too-thin, coward, I always see.   


I think back to the last _real_ family holiday we went on. How Father had hoisted me up onto his shoulders, and told me to jump into the water. How I’d clung to him so hard, that the print of my fingernails was visible on his skin for _days_ afterwards. His blatant disappointment, as potent and choking as ever. _‘It’s a sink or swim world, Basil,’_ he’d said. _‘Sooner or later, you’re going to realise that.’_   
I realise it now, but I’m still that same frightened little boy. I’m still sinking. _Deeper and deeper and deeper, every day. Drowning, always._ And now he’s gone, too.   
  
  


The second re-enter the room, I’m assaulted with shouts of ‘You’ve been chosen, mate,’ and ‘Phillipa has picked you,’ and ‘Your turn, Picasso.’s.

Sentenced, I swallow, thickly. Simon, still studying the spines of the books, and avoiding my gaze, as Phillipa takes my wrist and steers me towards the cupboard. Arm pulled straight, like she’s having to force a disobedient dog to walk besides her.

What I notice right away about the cupboard, is the clutter. Each shelf crowded with long-abandoned toys, coloured in garish pinks and purples. Ghosts of Phillipa’s childhood watching, as she tugs the bottom of her tank-top down and reaches for my waist. Her delicate fingers like Osmium against me (Simon told me about that in one of his rambles - The Osmium. Apparently, it’s one of the heaviest materials on Earth. But I shouldn't be thinking about that, right now - Shouldn’t be thinking about _him._ He isn’t here with me; Phillipa is, and I don’t want to let her down. _She_ hasn’t done anything wrong).

With a purposeful tug to the chord besides us, the lights click out.

“Hey,” she says, words shy as they brush against my skin. “Help me find you, okay? It’s easier with the lights out.”

I think about fleeing. Just ... slipping out the door and legging it home, but then she’s bumping against me, and trapping me within her arms.

“Baz, hey,” she whispers. “We don’t have to. If anyone asks, we can pretend. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want to, I promise.”

I can feel her next to me, but I can’t see a thing in front of me. “Okay,” I say, refusing to move.

Time passes. It feels like lots and lots of it, except, because I’m counting in my head, I know that it’s only been twenty three seconds of our seven minute sentence, so far.

I’m calculating the total number of seconds in seven minutes, when her hands leave my arms and brush upwards, onto my cheeks. Holding me steady, as her lips brush mine, once, and then again. Her movements lingering, experimentally, the second time.

It feels being kissed by a feather, painfully fragile and soft. _Like we’re both petal people; too easily broken._

I think about the earthquake kiss, and want to cry all over again. Because I am sad, this time. And _scared_ \- Because in all my years, I don’t think that my skin has ever felt so ill-fitting. I’m tearing apart; destroyed by the boy who doesn’t want me, and the girl who does.

My arms are hanging dead by my sides. I move to rest my palms against her waist, but it feels completely wrong - Too sloped and slim. I move them up to her back, but that’s really no better. I think about where to try next _(Her shoulders, maybe?),_ but before I have time to decide, she’s parting her lips and I’m following along, distractedly.   


It isn’t awful, I suppose. She tastes like mint, which is pleasant enough, but I’m struck with a lash of guilt, over my lack of similar preparation. She clearly threw back a few Polos, beforehand, but ... such a thought hadn't even _crossed_ my mind. I must just taste of stale alcohol to her (Which I doubt is what girls hope for in a guy).

It shocks me how ... wet and warm and tongue-y it all is. And, I remember just how inexperienced I am. How bad this must be for her _(Christ. I don’t want this to be bad for her. I want her to be happy. At least one of us deserves to be)._ I’m trying to tell my tongue to, like ... move? But, it won’t listen. And _that’s_ when I finally figure it out: there’s four hundred and twenty seconds in seven minutes. 

Maybe, forty seconds have passed in total, which means that we still have approximately ... three hundred and eighty seconds left of this. _Oh, fucking fuck. Three hundred and - Shit, I really don’t know if I can keep this up for that long._

But then ... it happens. Simon rises out of the darkness of my mind, like a Phoenix from a fire, and takes my hand like he did in the cinema. Pulling me into him, and holding me so close that I can smell his sweat, and the ever-present smoke on his skin. I can hear his voice: ‘Baz,’ he says in that bone-melting way only he can; calling me into action. So that, before I know it, my hands are in hers, and I’m pressing our bodies together, hard. Drawing her closer to me, and pushing my tongue deep inside her mouth - Summoning up every bit of earthquake that he’d pried out of my chest. A surprised, yet satisfied, yelp, muffled against my lips. _Bronze curls and a broad chest. The stars’ secrets spilling from full lips. Simon, everywhere._   
  
  


I must miss the alarm, because the next second the light switches back on and Agatha is besides us, tapping an invisible watch on her wrist.

“Time is up, lovebirds. I’m sure you can find a room with some ... privacy, if you’re not quite done,” she says, smirking with a suggestive lift of golden brow.

I look away, and blink the bright light from of my eyes. Phillipa looks awestruck - Positively dizzy on her feet - and I know, from the all-too-familiar stabbing in my gut, that I’ve done an irrevocably _bad_ thing. To her. To me. To Simon (Even though he won’t care).

I wasn’t - I mean, it wasn’t even _her_ that I was kissing, but she’s the one with lipstick smudged and hope burning behind the eyes. _Oh, fucking hell. What is wrong with me? Why would I do that? Why couldn’t I just ... tell her? She said we didn’t have to, but I did._

“Wow,” she breathes. “I wasn’t sure that you even - I mean, I’ve never ... no one has ever. Just, yeah ... thank you.”

I nod, and walk back over to my pre-disaster cushion, without a word. The bemused cheers around me, scraping at my stomach. 

I search the room for Simon, expecting him to be avoiding me still, but ... he’s not. He’s glaring right at me, face bricked up with fury, looking like he wants to hurl a meteorite into my skull.

 _But? I thought? I mean, he said ...? What is happening? Why is he -?_ Nothing makes sense. It was a game? No big deal? That’s - _He told me that he wanted to?_

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, mind screaming across the room, as I pray that he’ll _somehow_ hear me. ‘It was you that I was kissing, not her. I never wanted her. I’ve never wanted anyone, like I want you.’

My head drops into my hands, as my insides start to decompose. I’m involuntarily eavesdropping on a group of guys sat behind me, who seem to be having a contest to see how many they can say how ‘gay’ this or that is in one conversation, when someone jolts me back into reality with a shake to my shoulder. _Phillipa. Of course._

I shrug her off and try to disappear behind my hair again. She flinches besides me, understandably confused as to why I’ve exiled her a thousand miles away, after a kiss like that. I hate myself for what I’m what doing to her, but there’s nothing else that I can stomach right now. Everything I try just ...makes everything _worse,_ and I can’t risk anything more. Not yet. Not tonight.   


When I brave re-emergence a few moments later, she’s gone, and Agatha is escorting Simon into the cupboard. Leaving me, back alone. _More so than ever._

_How is this happening? I can’t have fucked up so badly that Simon and I end his last night, not only broken apart, but in the arms (And lips) of another. Please no. I have to stop this. I have to fix it while I still can. Maybe - Maybe if I can just ... explain it all to him, then he’ll let - Then we’ll ..._

‘No!’ I scream, jumping up desperately. ‘No, wait!’ I run over to Agatha’s stupid fucking egg timer and ring it, and ring it, and ring it. _Stop it. Stop it, now. Please. I didn’t mean - Please don’t! Stop!_ Except ... I don’t really. I don't do anything. I can’t do anything. I’m utterly eviscerated. 

I just sit, panic stealing my body, desperately trying to remember my rectangle breathing - _In for four, out for six? Or in for six out for four? I - Fuck, the air isn’t even reaching my lungs. It wouldn’t make any difference if I was try to breathe bloody octagons! I’m choking. I’m dying. Oh God, I’m so hot. I need - My jacket. No, air! I need air. There’s air all around me, but I can’t breathe it anymore. I’ve googled it before, so I know that most people can go three minutes without breathing. But ... how long has it been? Maybe ... a minute. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. I’m flustering too loud. I must look a mess. I just look weird. I cant - I only have two minutes left. I need to make this right, but I can’t see him. I can’t see anything, except blurs through tears that can’t fall fast enough._

_He’s in the dark, wrapped around her. Lips together. Hips together. Touching and caressing, cherishing and falling, further and further. They’re a twist of grotesque limbs in my mind, a snarling beast of my own invention._

_Why am I here? Why didn’t I run? Why wouldn’t he come with me? What? God, how long do I have left? I’m dying. Father will be even more alone. I’ll disappoint him again. I always ruin everything. Father. Simon. Phillipa. Mother. Fiona. Why am I me? What am I - Fuck, I can’t even - Why am I not dead yet? How long has it been? How much longer? Do I want to die? I don’t know. Surely it’s better than drowning on land, like this. Surely it’s better than being trapped in my head. I’m not even sure what I’m - Why I’m like this. He doesn’t like me, he never liked me. This changes nothing. But ... I can’t breathe. My limbs are gone, trembling and uncontrollable. I can’t get up, my legs won’t listen. Why won’t they listen? I can’t die here, at least let me die where he can’t see me. Please let me have that._

There’s a blur of a figure and straining arms hoisting me up. Somehow they get me up out of my seat, then out of the room, down the stairs, out the door, and onto the porch. The cold evening air strikes my face, but my lungs still won’t accept it. I stagger onwards, leaning my weight against them, and falling off my own feet with every step. Trails of people buzzing about the garden around me - Around us - as I haze towards traffic.

In my daze, I realise that I’m searching for the crazy-in-love, earthquake guys from earlier. I don’t find them, though. _I bet they don’t even exist. I bet my broken fucking brain just ... dreamt them up._

I look up at the woods - _Our_ woods - and watch all the trees crash down, unnoticed. _Fuck the Wavering Wood. Fuck it all. Fuck everything._

In the peripherals of my mind, I hear echoes words over the ringing in my ears ‘Okay’, ‘Wrong’, ‘Ambulance’. _Shit, what? Ambulance? No, no, no._ I beg my head to shake - My throat too choked to work through the words - and finally _(Finally!)_ my body listens.   


It’s her, I realise - Phillipa - even after my fucked up little ‘performance’ back in there. She’s shaking me, trying to get me to answer, I suppose. The smell of flowers, faded from her skin. _What’s the time? How long have I been here? How long since I tore the ground from under my own feet?_

I shuffle her off of me, and shake my head again. Lifting myself up and demanding my legs to cooperate. _Just one step, then two. Three and four. I don’t live far away. I can make it alone._

She steps behind me, and I shoo her away with an arm. There’s a stabbing pain when I pull it back upwards. _Oh God, that’s a symptom of a heart attack, isn’t it? Arm pain? Is my left of right? I can’t even tell? My heart is racing, has been for - Since I got here, really. It must be giving up on me. It must - I just need to get home. Maybe I should ring Fiona? But ... I don’t want to worry her, and I don’t think I can talk still. I’ll walk home. If I keel over before I make it, maybe a stranger will find me and call somebody? Maybe they can revive me? How long can you be legally dead, before they decide you’re past resuscitation? Do I even want to be resuscitated? Maybe not. It would be easier, if I wasn’t. Maybe Simon will come to my funeral. But ... I doubt it. The way he looked at me - That was hatred - and there’s no coming back from that. Actually ... I think it’s my right arm. That’s not the heart attack arm, right? I won’t die, not yet, I just ... need to get home._

_One step, two step. On and on and on._

When I come back into myself, I’m tucked up on the beach. Hands grazed where they’re twisted into the gritty sand, and lungs finally, _mercifully_ full.

The sky is dark, and I think that I may finally be free of the day. I should probably be getting home soon, but I’m not ready quite yet - The disorientation of panic still lingering at my edges, and dampening the world.

I pull out my phone, and shoot a message to Fiona (She doesn’t need to stay up all night worrying, just because her Nephew is a disaster). There’s nothing from Simon, but at least thirty rapid texts from Phillipa. I try to undo at least some of the damage I’ve done tonight:

_**BP, 1:49AM:** ‘Hey. Sorry if I worried you, I’m all fine now. Home and safe, hope you are too. I haven’t really drunk before, and I must’ve just pushed myself too far. Please don’t tell anyone about what you saw, it was just a drunken freak out, won’t happen again. Strictly Coca Cola for me, from now on :)’_

There’s so much more I want to say - So _many_ inexplainable apologies left in me - but I’m done for tonight. _Done with it all._

Images of Simon and Agatha, stirring in my mind, no matter how much I try to suffocate them. Him joyfully tangled up in her arms, her light; her _normal._ Because ...that’s what he wants. Not the clingy, broken, freak-show, who went mad off of the hallucination of sparks, which did not exist.

I think about how full-on I was with kissing Phillipa. What that meant, and why I did it. How much of him, I poured into her. How _wrong_ it all was. My body rejecting the night entirely as every sip of poison, every cancerous regret, and all those filthy, lying kisses, rise up my throat and splatters onto the ground. Leaving me nothing more than a stinking, clattering bag of bones.  
  


When I get back home, I try to begin to free myself of it all, the only way that I can think of. Shredding every drawing of Simon - Every humiliating trace of misplaced reverence, realised within my brushstrokes - and burying the evidence in bin bags. Knowing that tomorrow, I’ll take him up onto the cliffs, and chuck what’s left of him into the ocean. _Because he hates the water. Because he can’t swim._

But, even once I’m tucked up in bed, I can’t sleep. I lay, clinging to his meteorite, window cracked open despite the bone-deep chill, hoping that, despite what I deserve, he comes to see me.

_He never does._

Later, he’s taken out my life, with no more than the faint rumble of an engine, and a fleeting glow of headlights. The final pieces of me, slipping away, as the last traces of him, fade from view.


	6. Temporary Update!

Hey, 

Just to say that an update should be coming at some point this week, sorry for the delay :) 

My laptop died, so I've had to restart the next chapter on my iPad, and have been given more hours at work than anticipated. Should be done soon though!

Thanks for your patience!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed :) Comments and kudos, appreciated.  
> My Tumblr: [Link text](https://mageicalwishes.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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